Sonnet #258

When the storms come, the soil swells with water
Four days’ rain, it swells the ground, the seeds
Were there, already, they just needed storms to feed
The rise of them; When the storms come, the water
floods the low places, blocks the low streets,
There’s terrible accidents, and the weeds
They rise up in every crevice and mud-soaked gutter
They rise up, this bindweed, this amaranth and pigweed
They rise, all those lost bits of rye and zoysia, marigold
and poppies flung beyond the proper beds, these seeds
Were always there. Don’t let the pictures of cities sold
to you, those perfect, coiffed bare patches or grassy greed
for all spare ground: The weeds were always here. From storms,
They grow. All seeds root. All drowned — devouring worms.

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