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?'
Henri Cole
Pierce the Skin
Selected Poems 1982 - 2007
My Weed
Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2010©
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