Nettle Sting

I reached into the waist-high weeds

to find the plastic spark.

I ignored the garden’s ancient needs

and fumbled in the dark.

The nettle hit me like a grid

of tiny, poison needles.

I paid for what my fingers did

among the dirt and beetles.

White welts bloom across the bone

in a map of my mistakes.

I’m better off just left alone

before the fever breaks.