Weeds Left of Wilderness

Kayla Cannon

They love the road-side– each one

From roost released at first light

With eager wings, down the run

Rushes and streaks in half-flight–

Her sisters too, all flock-tight–

To explore dew-thick grass, seek

Amongst penny-cress, milkweed,

Clover, what feet and sharp beak

Quick capture: insects, fine seed.

They wander as hens’ wills lead.

Come, watch the stalks quiv’ring sway

As, backs dappled with shrub-shade,

They forge a slender pathway

Through weeds– where once briars laid–

Thick, lichened bark caught sun-fade–

Or pasture growing lush, rich

With graze for cattles’ horned heads.

Remains of days past: this ditch,

Bound books of black and white words,

And several clucking hen-birds.

Little enough– yet treasure

In lovely, small way, as fields

That offer sun-burnt pleasure–

As forest where no man wields

Iron against wood– this yields

Some peace of ancient forest

And past farm. It’s less, yet more.

Times filled with farm-work, dead rest,

When all else one must ignore,

Given for time to explore,

To find one’s loves– life opens.

The past was lovely, ‘tis true–

And not yet gone– road-weeds, hens–

They kept part as the world grew.

The past is kept– and made new.