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Winter Weeds


Winter Weeds 

“We should take some home.”, he said. 
The crop of winter weeds grew upright
In the white, fresh-fallen snow.
Yellow like straw, like sand, like sunlight.

It was the sweet surprise of them,
Suddenly – there beside the ski trail:
Dried sprays, seed rattles, bowing
Before the chilling winter wind.

We should take some home?
To blossom in a bottle
 On the cluttered kitchen table
In the comfortable confusion
Of opened and unopened envelopes
Of morning tea cups, sugar bowl,
One dirty mitten, pencils, spoons
And the last of the poinsettia.

No.

Better to leave them bending here
To leave evocation to the mind's eye
To know
There is no time but this present.






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