this weed, skinny standing stark,
face to the sky holds its small
leaves like beggar’s palms to
the sun, the rosette there
circling its throat, an upside-down
crown.
it is you, this weed, and it
flourished today from the crown up,
raised and opened
the arms of its seeds to the sky, sparkling,
with intelligence and the morning dew.
tomorrow
they will release, lift from your mind
like nimbus parachutes, or heavenbound fireflies,
shining ideas leaving behind
that which was rooted.
