He’s Past Tense (A Poem for Day 7 of PAD)

After his death, dandelions spread
through the yard like wildfire.
Inside his garden shed,
jugs of industrial-grade vinegar
lined the walls
like soldiers waiting to deploy.
It had become his ritual
after that morning pour over
of double dark decaf—drink up
then slay those weeds birthing
their yellow buds against his wishes.
They didn't belong, he said,
in his garden. They were
unwelcome, unwanted,
had transplanted to his yard
without his permission.
It was his duty to annihilate them
before they spread
their seeds
throughout the neighborhood.
But he became careless,
dousing them
without first donning
his protective gear.
She found him,
arms & legs shooting up
like tender blossoms
reaching for the sky,
his body wedged
between his concrete-block
retaining wall
& the neighbor’s cedar fence,
his red plaid shirt
soaked from the contents
of his vinegar jug.
After his death, dandelions spread
through the yard like wildfire.

The Day 7 prompt is to write a tense poem. 

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