Trying to keep the weed just a weed.
Don’t let me metaphor it to death though
the way they scourge my yard, they do suggest
a life out of control, or Attila demanding entry to Rome.
Well, no, he’s already here.

Now stop. The weeds are just evidence of sloth;
you don’t need grand similes for that.
They’re just damn weeds, not evidence
of moral decay or if so only the venial sin variety.
Say three Hail Mary’s and keep pulling.  

Even better while you’re kneeling on the
new kneepads your wife has kindly gotten you, imagine
the Dionysian vigor that propels the weeds onward, upward.
Make a small clearing—evidence of some progress at least.
Say a prayer to some nature god along with Mary.

Your poor statue of Saint Francis is almost
covered with weeds.
He could use a prayer while you’re at it.

Uncover him, and don’t let the metaphors choke.