"Autumn Weeds Praising God"
the place where grass grows unquestioned
and no voices comment
on or lament its lack of mowing,
and all those weeds rejoicing,
hidden and forgotten:
knowing how to revel
and give thanks,
they blossom flowers and shout
yellow, purple, red among the tall thin grass,
"Good job God!"
You honey maker
are both greeted and rejected
by the same hearts and for the exact same flight.
How delicately you carry the title
accepting one nectar over another,
parting petals for life;
offering the genius to hover,
to tumble the laws of physics
a-top the flowered fields,
you laugh across the pollen,
knowing the deliciousness of working solely
for spring and her sweet sweet sugar.