The Cost
Dollarweed —
a name – filled with promise,
in reality – a bane;
its healthy leaves glisten, gleam,
shiny chlorophyll coins amid the downtrodden grass.
The grass struggles under the Southern sun,
crawling, crab-like across the ground,
thatching together an existence
despite the intruder flashing its green, wedging between.
The grass holds tenuously to the surface,
tenaciously to itself,
sustaining life through uniformity of purpose.
Sunlight illuminates the surface struggle, but underneath,
concealed, the strength of Dollarweed’s currency is revealed.
Dollarweed’s flashy green transforms,
a deep, white web—not knitted together,
but individual lines,
each its own endeavor.
Pluck a dollar from the top,
the thick white roots, snakelike, offer it freely.
On the surface, take what you can; kill what you will,
Still, underneath, the roots travel.
To rid oneself of Dollarweed,
there is a price to pay.
Dollarweed—
Take not a dollar for the till;
take a till to the dollar.
About the author: Lisa Taylor is an academic librarian and a freelance writer with wide-ranging interests. Lisa's stories, poems, reviews, and articles have appeared in print and online anthologies, journals, and databases. Her book reviews appear regularly in AudioFile Magazine. She makes her home in Florida, the land of flowers, where it’s harder to stop something from growing than to start it.