beneath the iron trellis
a weed breaks through mulch,
my children chide me to dig it up.
One day, with pruner
toning down tomato plants,
I am tempted to snip at the weed.
Weeks go by, I am less at home,
stopping in for laundry
then leaving for the road.
Late July heat sears souls and skin,
encourages growth.
By some miracle,

where weed once stood,
a bloom unfolds,
a green sea anemone
readying for tides.
A golden sunflower
opens mid-week.
I am ecstatic,
my children retreat.
Five, ten, then twenty blossoms
perform sun salutations.
Just below,
another shoot presents more blooms.
Can it be if we are patient,
every weed will turn
into an object of wonder,

if only we forget its name?

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