I can hear the siren song of bugles,
once a sound to battle’s charge.
This new battle is in my mind, a new sound,
the enticing song, as the bugle urges retreat.
Forget the urge for growth. It’s winter
when plants lie dormant until spring,
when the soil is warm and summer waits.
Time for me to reap past summers’ growth.
There are others in their vital spring,
or their summer when their sun is warm.
I’ve become a weed in their garden
and they need my space in the row.
Perhaps it’s enough that my roots lie deep,
need me to plant no more, waiting in rest
for a new bugle song.