21. Thinking about weeds
How they thrive in all weathers
choking out fragile flowers with
their scrubby colors, purple
yellow and white
overnight
A rude Morse code
Nature’s middle finger thrust up
despite chemical intervention
back breaking torture
frantic midmorning digging
There’s something glorious
in this insistence
“Nothing gold can stay,” says
the old poet, forgetting fields
of dandelions, constellations
recollected in buckets
by sweaty hands, fingers sore
with thistle down and silver slivers
small thorny hairs of
cheerful resistance
