Date/Time
Date(s) - 07/12/2018 - 07/18/2018
All Day

Categories

Weeds

          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.