Women and Weeds (a poem)


mona-caron-weeds-3-1024x576

Smooth army of blades upright, uniform

invaded by shapes careless

of a perfection that strives

to eliminate dissension

Furred and spiked, clingy climbers

lacy, rebellious, fleshy

climbing high above the ranks of the well-behaved soldiers

Tight, orderly brains trained to shut out the mind-well

 

Wizened fingers once knew how to pick

from endless array of plants

the perfect remedy

Yet our scientific control box has shifted woman and plant

to black or white, ugly or beautiful, beneficial or garbage

Discarded, we are weeds

Full of juice, joy, vitamins, healing powers, whispers of wisdom

If only a few are coveted

Many are valuable, unseen, untasted, unexperienced

Wasting away are the talented many

Stronger for genocidal craze

The DNA an arsenal of innate adaptation

Perfected because left alone

Left out, not boxed

Unconventional is the new beauty

Powerful is the weed

Left alone to evolve

Woman is no hybrid either

Abandoned, crushed, used, disregarded by so many

She and weed are rising, will rise together

A new glorious day beckons

in a softer, wilder, world

the feathered throat of mother spews

a web of glorious love

 

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