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.