the purposed
row of old boxelders
stands—
popular, still-
leafless, a battalion of bare
limbs offering fluke safe-
harbor to secret
upstart colonies
of clover, creeping
charlie, springy
tufts of wild
violets!
—and as yet, it's
only there in
dirt and
dim and secret
pregnancy of scraggy shadow
that blossoms mad and
unsubstantiated
this new love
of the unhusbanded;
remember what
another upstart said once:
a weed is just
a flower growing
not because
you say so.
