Wednesday, July 20, 2022


On many of these 
shady, long,
well-to-do streets, 

hawthorn trees 
loom proudly,
manicured and safe—

nobody sees (or at least, 
no one chooses to)

how freely those limbs 
offer casual
safe harbor 

to secret upstart colonies 
of clover, goldenrod, 
creeping charlie—

as if, only there,
in the scraggly dimness 
of some focal point's shadow,

could blossom 
the mad love 
of the shy and unsubstantiated—

as if, only when protected 
from the great glare 
of everydayness 

can the legion of unhusbanded 
whom live here   
among us

clearly remember 
what another upstart said once:
that a weed is just 

a flower growing 
not because 
you said so.