‘My Weed’ by Henri Cole

On the path to the water, I found an ugly weed

growing between rocks. The wind was stroking it,

saying, “My weed, my weed.” Its solid,

hairy body rose up, with big silver leaves

that rubbed off on me, like sex. At first,

I thought it was a lamb’s ear, but it wasn’t.

I’m not a member of the ugly school,

but I circled around it and looked a lot,

which is to say, I was just being, and it

seemed to me --

in a higher sense -- to represent the sanity

of living.

It was twilight. Planets were gathering.

“Mr. Weed,” I said, “I’m competitive,

I’m afraid, I’m isolated, I’m bright.

Can you tell me how to survive?”

*

From “Blackbird and Wolf: Poems”

(Farrar, Straus & Giroux: 62 pp., $20)