the Wordsworth of Weeds

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I read somewhere that weeds are the rodents of the plant world,

that they are sneakily aggressive, opportunistic, fiercely feral,

that they should be weeded out. I have heard this language before;

little good comes from it. Where are the Wordsworths of Weeds?

Plath comes closest, celebrating mushrooms. I like the strange,

tangled beauty of weeds, their punk swagger, their dogged persistence.

They too one day might inherit the earth.

 

Makeovers

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I am re-badging my blog from a muted rural setting to a cheeky,

Irreverent bird,

a bird with balls, moxie,

Marching to his own beat, on his own path.

A Stand-up comic

a delver of the Absurd.

Not a morose follower of the herd.

No, this ostrich will not  bury his head in the sand.

This bird will bray,

be heard,

be unafraid.

He’s my mouthpiece. Listen to his words.