The Weed

By Jayne Bullock

Whish, whoosh! Whisper, Rustle!

A sea of green - swooping, swaying,

dancing to the beat - fast, then slow,

in tempo, with rhythm;

a ballet without music or sound.

A gyrating sea in shades and hues of green ­–

astir with the evening breeze.

Slender lean stems, crowned with oat-like seeds,

surrounded by lush, willowy green leaves.

A meadow, an ocean-

bespeckled with puffs of purple, white and yellow,

effusively lining and carpeting a well-trodden path.

Behold! The tall gracefully swaying stalks proclaim – 

am I not a work of art- a welcome perennial to nature?

A menace? Surely not! Only man has no time for me.

They say I am a contagious, earthy-hungry eyesore,

an undesirable denizen –

a threat to farmland, roadside and hill!

But, still... See how I sway in the breeze –

vacillating unpredictably in magical motion.

Hypnotic - bowing and undulating in the wind,

with regal dignity.

I beckon, I call;

making life seem more beautiful, gentle –

a  welcoming haven. Peace