I speak for the weeds (a poem)


chipmunk and weeds.jpg

From a matrix of sand, spewing gravel, humus, and a heartfelt explosion

of abundance

I sing unending joy. I drive, poke, peek, push

From within the ranks of green soldiers constantly mown down in an acceptance of defeat

I rise up, we rise up, diverse, tangled, fleshy, juicy, untamed

We are the voice and talents of our beloved undomesticated mother.

Living unframed, we are the wild women

shamed into invisibility or porn

Our abilities mostly unseen, our beauty defamed

We are pushed outside the acceptable window of vision

Those who purportedly seek status, perfection, power

cannot see us

We know no hierarchy

Only freedom entices us. We are the artists and purveyors of the green side of the brain

The heart of darkness of humanity has plunged us into a blind eye

plumbed the heart of being into a footnote.

Yet we embody the feminine power of birth, life,  healing, and the creative juice

Infinite shapes, textures, chemicals, potentials, striving

We remain pure, never hybridized, not studied, used, developed

Just poisoned, attacked, eliminated

We bother the perfect unity of control. We are not an image with which you can comfort yourself

We hear of the genocide of peoples

We are told of the extermination of animals

The endangerment of species

Yet here we live, wild

in the perfection of multiplicity

An infinite expression of life force

We are the motion inside of you

The water that feeds you

The medicine that heals you

We are the voice of love from your mother

The mother you never embrace, thank, or appreciate. Your toes have not wriggled near our roots and the worms for so long.

Yet our contact would restore you to balance and bring you peace and health.

I speak for the weeds, whose passionate expression of indomitable life cannot be crushed

Remember, gardener.

What are you growing? Who are you helping? What are you creating?

We are here to help.

 

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