shady, long,
well-to-do streets,
hawthorn trees
loom proudly,
manicured and safe—
only,
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.
