Roundup

This one might need a re-read or two… but hopefully it's worth it to the attentive reader. (Puns are fun.)

He pours his concrete over sandand gardens with his tools of steel,makes paths of gravel over land,thinks he controls just how his plants feel. In neat, tight rows he makes them grow.If any plant dares grow too tall,he wields his scythe and starts to mow.All green things must stay neat and small. The gardener sits in oval barnand sends out icy clouds of rainto chill the sprouts, stay free from harmshould any plants grow tall again. My God, a weed! His eagle eyespots one “good” dandelion… grow.He gets his can of bitter lyesand dumps some on its leafy toes. The little weed soon withers, wilts,but then another takes its place —he rages while his lye-stream siltsinto the soil that his plants taste. Once more he sprays his lyes aroundto kill that “pretty” yellow bloom —his own plants sink into the ground,their poppy-red heads sink in gloom. He ran into his barn’s white frameto fight some pests on desert fields.Two dandelions, though dead, gained famewhile sapping his brown garden’s yield. Before he knew it, fields turned greenand gold, a rising yellow patchthat spread across where poppies’ mean—ness died from all the lye they’d catch.