Mulch

The beds have been covered with mulch today,
and only a few blades of onion grass rise above.
Other clumps of grass and weeds must die.
I was spreading in the sun,
say a bunch of dandelion spears.
Why is it night? Says crabgrass,
as the little plantain struggles against the black chips.
They all push upward toward the sun,
bend and wither, their roots with less to nourish,
until one day, the message comes to let go.

I throw such dress on what of me I cannot show
or leave open to the elements,
or see the natural beauty in,
and I suffer.