Garden of Weeds

The arrival of spring they come again, The stubborn green that flaws his very land. So with his hands, cleansing has now began, Who knew what the near future had in plan. A year later a major crisis struck, Equal to what is known as the dark plague, It sought death and brought unfortunate luck, For its cure remains unknown and vague. Unemployment and depression returned, Returning the stubborn weeds with them too, His yard’s pretty image now burned, For his hands were sold to make revenue. All reflected in his garden of weeds, Chaos, fear, loss and sadness supersedes. - Author’s Note: This sonnet is about my father. He is known for having green thumbs and constantly taking care of his plants and yard. Unfortunately, when his workplace began laying off employees during the spread of COVID-19, my father became consumed with work, which resulted in the negligence of what he loves to do most. During the springtime, I witnessed how long and unruly the grass became, along with the growing abundance of weeds. In that moment, it was as if the yard was mirroring the feelings I felt, my father, and the impact of COVID-19. Illustration by Melanie Tran‍