Come Hither

“Come hither, my dearie,” the hooded old crone whispered to the young lovely, with a voice as rough as gravel. She stood bent over like a broken gnarled tree, hiding her cold dry eyes. With one withered hand she gestured, curling her warty finger up and in, asking for closeness. Gasping, the young weed lovely tried to turn away, clutching her chest in a moment of cold clammy fear. But silently and without warning the ancient brown witch wound around the tender one and tightened her grip, encircling her waist with thorny skin and imprisoning her arms with a strength that seemed impossible. The green weed lovely twisted and turned, crying out in horror. She tried to get away, but could not. Would no one help her?

Suddenly she felt alone and so she woke with a start, sweating and breathing hard. There was no old crone, no witch, no threatening grip. It was merely a bad dream brought on by the stifling summer heat. Her enemy had been the tangled sheets that had tried to strangle her, enslaving her limbs in their twisted, too-hot embrace! Sweet dreams, weed lovelies!

Please come back tomorrow for a new “Weed Image of the Day” and let me know which ones you like.

We and our weeds are so much more than what we first appear to be.

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