Heretical Beauty

No one in their right mind while wandering

lonely as a cloud would proclaim they had spied

a host of scrawny weeds upon the hillside

and break into a jig. Yet weeds have their worshipers.

You can scour the internet and dig up poems,

odes to weeds, panegyrics. They are the bones

of the earth. Wordsworth got in first, that’s all.

But his daffy little poem is not the last word.

The weeds will rise up, their heretical, skewed beauty,

tough as barbed-wire, will find its bards.

17 thoughts on “Heretical Beauty

  1. What is a weed but a wildflower? But, a plant that stubbornly needs no new seed? I guess I’m a bit of a weed. Also, I have a poem about a dandelion, because every respectable poet needs at least one poem about a weed. Maybe I’ll post it as soon I “see” one of the stubborn things around here again.

    Liked by 1 person

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