Where weeds grow
flowers grow.
The thistle behind Catherine’s
garage.
Sturdy and tall.
Chih’s sunflower,
slender but taller still,
halfway to the gutter.
Goldenrod,
almost three feet high,
become lucent
in the summer light.
Then autumn
from the frost of night,
red and yellow hair,
dimming where love was.
In a patch of wild weeds,
a hundred flowers,
two hundred shades
of green,
as many shapes
as there are size,
indigo,
milk,
flecks of flame,
all with one rule.
Share the light,
share the rain,
hold up your brother,
sister,
stand aside,
make room for one another.
The way the world plants
a garden.
Enough for all,
if all share,
the prettiest place of all,
behind the garage,
a flower
for each and everyone
who loves wild,
where birds fly,
and insects come.