In Weodmonað, the weed-month comes,
When green things surge and choke the fields:
Not all that grows is gift or gold,
Not all abundance leads to yield.

Our ancestors bent with weary hands,
Cutting nettle, dock, and thorn,
Learning that labour never ends,
That summer’s wealth is always worn.

They knew the earth is double-faced:
It offers bread, it harbours bane.
To walk with wisdom is to see
The gift entwined with hidden chain.

From them we learn: not every growth
Deserves the sun, deserves the rain;
Neglect becomes a harvest lost,
And plenty turns to ash again.

So tend your gardens, tend your days,
Pull falsehood’s roots before they spread.
For weeds of thought, like weeds of soil,
Can starve the living, leave us dead.

Weodmonað still whispers clear:
In field and mind, be watchful, true.
The work of care is never done,
But sows the future’s bread for you.