I weed with what I think is single-mindedness.  Bunched up towel under knobby knees.  Gloves of good leather for those damn nettles.  A healthy respect for the spiders and bees.  We’re getting on close to summer’s end, and we’re pushing for our house to sell.  My wife, you see, is getting a little more sick, but continues to soldier on at work. We could sure use the money…she needs a long long rest.  I need the peace of mind. 
Funny, you know….now that I’m out here with the bag and rake and gloves and all, I am beating myself up over this silly garden.  I never had paid it a lot of attention or put much effort into its care,  and now I am making it look nice for somebody else.  It’s a lovely day out here, tempered by the busy street noises behind me- the engineered farting of motorcycle engines, cars with stereos so loud you can feel the sound waves through your liver.  Come on, folks.  Let’s just have the birdies instead.  Never mind, this old guy is gonna move, and you can carry on making your mark in the world.  As I dig and kneel, the earthy scents rise to me and I think that this little pastime is really not so bad.  I am doing a bit of good in some tiny corner of the world.  Surely the bona fide plants appreciate my getting rid of the riffraff.  Even the spiders seem excited (or agitated) at the prospect of new craters in their landscape.  But, the little lift this few minutes has given me is on a seesaw with thoughts more bleak:  the mauve of regret, the orange of anxiousness.  My nose runs a little.  A fly jets into my left ear, and I slap at it  involuntarily, producing a nasty ringing.  I stumble to my feet after the last offender is pulled out by its roots.  In for a cup of tea, we shall.  Rake up and bag the drying entrails, we shall.  Tomorrow.