Poem By Harriet Brown
Their seeds are in the soil always.
Dig them or yank them up,
spade over them—they will be back.
The creepers thread roots
through the soil’s lacy eyes.
The sprouters love true darkness.
The binders make a weakness
out of strength.
Crown vetch, velvetleaf, creeping Charlie.
Leaves like umbrellas, like hearts,
barbed arrows lifted to the sun.
The ordinary and the obscure
all bound to the same dirt.
Some defend themselves with thorns
and some with flowers.
Some dig their roots deeper
than water. Some make it
to the edge of the known
world before dying back.
Like us, they are all tender
at the start. What they grow into
is another story.