Weed Lore 2

Not long ago, all flowers
were wildflowers. Thus, to be
a weed is to be history.

We are beneath each other's notice.
How does that work? you might ask.
Cosmically.

Two planets
occupy the same space,
entirely unaware of each other

except when, occasionally,
something bothersome happens
and we need to assign blame.

Weeds are handy for that. So
is history.

Pastime

On the backs of rocks
I feel my archetypes
and how they bloom in summer,
especially the one that
I might call the
Wise-ass Small Time
Criminal. That character
who takes a funny kind
of pride in avoiding rules.

Hot weather seems
to encourage this one. 
I think of her as being
related to the kinds of moss
that very slowly make
soil out of boulders. She
makes the rigidities of life
into a growing medium
for whatever wants to grow.

Which is often not wanted
by polite society. There’s
the laughter of straps falling
off shoulders, of a touch of 
sunburn. A scent of
permissiveness. We don’t
need to go to the beach,
let’s just laze on this here
warm rock, thinking
of nothing at all.

---

 A Note About Summer

The more years I work in gardens, the more I value weeds. Summer is weedland, and they give more to humans than we yet fully know, if ever we will. My love for rocks, especially warm ones, is a year-round love. There was one garden I worked in that had a gigantic boulder at the top of its highest hill. That rock magnetized me and I probably spent more time touching and sitting on that rock than I spent on my work. I could no more avoid going to it than an iron shaving can avoid a magnet. I guess that’s kind of like the way summer calls up the green surge from the roots of things. I myself prefer spring.

–Kyla Houbolt

---

Kyla Houbolt writes poems and occasional reviews. She also gardens. More to be found here: https://kylahoubolt.us/