Weed and Star

A man bends toward the edge

of a new-mown lawn, his beard

bright white beneath a lowered straw hat.

Slowly, surgically, he trowels weed

after weed from its city park moorings.

Sometimes he holds a particular grass

to the afternoon sun, admiring the nimbus

around delicate fronds and seed pouches.

Then he lays it down among other fallen kin

in a burlap bag at his feet.

My grandmother picked burrs from our

sweaters when I was a child.

She’d lift them to the light, pull them apart,

examine their design, say, as if for the first time,

“Every seed a work of art.”

She did the same with stars, touching each one,

pulling it down for a moment from its garden

of constellations, her eyes bright with their shine.

Drink of This

Near the poison plant

grows the healing herb.

Their roots braid

in my ground.

I will make a brew of them,

pour it in a cup.

It will tell me

on my tongue

the taste of how I love,

how I kill.

From the Fall 2007 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 24, No. 1)

© 2007 Clare Morris