The Weekly Poem – Weeds
Date(s) - 07/12/2018 - 07/18/2018
by J.D. McClatchy
The pigrush, the poverty grass,
the bindweed’s stranglehold morning glories,
the dog blow and ninety-joints –
they ask so little of us to start with,
just a crack in the asphalt,
or a subway grate with an hour of weak light.
One I know has put down roots
as far as a corpse is buried, its storage stem
as big as my leg. That one’s called
man-under-ground. That one was my grudge.
And suddenly now this small
unlooked for joy. Where did it come from,
with these pale shoots
and drooping lavender bell? Persistent
intruder, whether or not
I want you, you’ve hidden in the heart’s
overworked subsoil. Hacked at
or trampled on, may you divide and spread,
just as, all last night,
the wind scattered a milkweed across the sky.