They are a poor man’s flower,
bereft of innocence,
common,
everywhere.
They propagate,
blazing yellows
in fields of green,
tarnished by
their unwanted
presence.
The world can ill afford
the time to be
rid of them.
They are an
inconvenience
of summer.
They grow stubborn
to the wayward will
of tenders who
know better,
who have decided
extinction
would be best.
They live on false promises.
They grow in fervent hope.
They share the sun,
covet the rain as much
as any other.
Flowers there are,
consigned to table and porch,
coteries of culture,
gatherings of the refined,
celebrity watched,
admired,
discovered.
But there,
in the glooming light,
outlaws on the run
sow their profligate seed,
fix their roots deep
and declare
they will not be brushed
so easily aside.
The life force is theirs also.
Irresistible,
Demanding,
Insistent and
Proud.
It will not retreat
from a world
so little understood,
so careful in its
approbation
and deceit.
"In every poem there is beauty."
Cook County News-Herald.