by Jim Esch
among the neatly trimmed twins
painted porches, pointed bricks
is the corner house where
crabgrass and dandelions stalk
’round the porch,
creeping ’round back
tall tufts abound
with green wild shoots
a silent gas mower
amid pugnacious weeds
the wild green mounds
swallow it like
Easter Sunday congregations
clacking down a concrete walk
growing neglectful and funky,
filing into church
defiant and full of stealth,
the weeds grown stubborn,
rubbery and rancorous,
then calm and disaffected,
poking, peeking out
a swampy league of spreading chaos
that mocks the rusty sickle blades.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 