This poem is disjointed because I started it in 2013 in my small yard garden and finished it yesterday, 2019, looking at an acre yard we used to mow that is now beautiful prairie lawn. The poem is rambling and imperfect like a weed. While the poem encourages us all to put aside long judgements to take a new look, it also encourages us to stop mowing, stop using chemicals, and invite in wildlife and keep out noxious weeds. The last line showed up after I thought the poem was done. It could spark a whole new poem. Enjoy!
In defense of weeds
Mother Nature’s garden
a meadow medley.
Who am I to judge her plantings?
Weeds are green
and green is green, native and tough.
No need to plant, water, or weed the weeds.
After all, a weed by any other name
might be a rose
for a rose is related to the thistle.
To love a weed,
see its beauty
no matter its name or reputation.
There is sculptural Needle grass
a starburst mid-century modern,
it’s heavy spike-like seeds
bounce in the breeze
and provide contrast to
the rubenesque Peonies
who volunteered beneath the chicken-legged Rhodies.
making my garden more interesting.
There’s the delight of Dandelions,
bees first spring food,
transforming from happy buttery faces
into ethereal, almost transparent, delicate puff balls.
There are pretty weeds that flower,
good weeds that keep the noxious at bay,
medicinal weeds like the yellow pedaled St. John’s Wort
to keep moods on track,
purple-coned Echinacea to boost our immunity,
and the comfort of chamomile tea
in mini daisy-like form.
For the hands-free gardener
who grows volunteers best
Mother Nature provides prairie lawns,
weed patches to feed the grasshoppers, butterflies,
and hide the new fawns.
Mother Nature’s plantings
spared the mower
to the delight of glorious weeds
and aren’t we all weeds?