WEED SEED

 

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                                                                                                    …my life
                                        a patient willing descent into the grass.

                                             – Wendell Berry (“The Wish To Be Generous”)

Hemmed in silver moonlight, scattered
clouds linger over hills, no wet reflection
of the porch light. She has come and gone

without waking me with thunder, pellets
on the roof, not a leaky drip from the eave,
leaving nothing to remember her passing

by—not even her musty petrichor perfume
in the damp dark air to soothe my senses—
gone without a thought of waking me.

From a distance in the daylight, islands
of purple filaree look like dirt in graying
green, rolling dusty plumes follow cows

into water, yet they don’t seem to worry
into another winter without rain. Too
familiar, I read the signs with each synapse

shortened by the hard and dry. Too long
in the same place, I can see the weather
and the world have changed around me—

changed me as I retreat and try to adapt
like summer weed seed over time:
impervious to thirst and political herbicides.

 

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