The Weeds

Standing in a field waiting for the dogs to go;

surrounded by childhood flowers- in tall wispy wheat grass, with Black-eyed Susans llike the sun; dwarfing daisies like the cool rain when the sun peeks in.

And clover, dear clover- so fragrant with her stout

lavender head. Never parading a raised bed

- stalks too sturdy; blooms too eager?

Like whitening hairs stand coarse in a fading

crest of brown,

these intrude into gardens, rush sidewalk cracks,

and waft their pollen at the whitest wedding gown.

We stand growing outside the established bed.