Weeding's Day

I stand on the mound where the golden cat sleeps in the golden sun. He culls the grassy verge, depopulating the sweet who die young and thus bear much fruit. He stretches, gives me the eye, a once-over from a higher power which has undergone kenosis.

Every morning, he does his weeding. I only do mine as appropriate. And what other day is there, but that which was dedicated to the Lord of Mounds, the Weeder of the Slain, he who hung on a tree for three days to learn the mystery of salvation?

Such an odd echo. But as someone else once put it, only the greatest rock makes the greatest ripples.