I prefer weeds allowed to their own profusion,
free-green beneath blue in towering sunlight,
their growth only in endless fine detail.
You won’t see any of it if you stand too tall —
eyes confused by gardened illusion look only for show —
but as a lover of clover I am stopped in my tracks
and health comes back now into my face.
What do I care for horticultural prejudice?
Here are the plants no nursery sells us,
no design at all in their lush disorder —
to most they register only as second thoughts —
yet here is one mirror I see myself best in,
no acute disquiet in that long grass reflection,
or taut addition to the nerves.