Monday, June 1, 2009


          You are all the same to us,
solitary, standing above us, planning
your silly lives. . . . Louise Glück

You can argue the finer points
of hoe or hand trowel, thrust
reluctant fingers into
our prickly intentions
and pull,
but this means nothing to us.

You seek solace in the docile flowers,
the whispers of the wood violet,
the reverie of roses,
the sunflowers hanging guilty heads
by future generations;

but we will not be silenced. We are blue
voices repeated, rising: from
the last white taproot, from
each silky seed thumbing
a ride
on the wind.

Blind weeders of tame gardens,
you are all the same to us.  
We are savage daughters of the
mother: we crowd the columbine,
bite bare ankles, tangle your thyme.
We wear purple. 
You are never safe
from our sharp critique.

This poem first appeared in  Full of Crow, June 2009.

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