The weeds dip in the wind
like flames in fire,
licking the air with their green
tongues tasting the earth-brown
flavor of insects;
the warm red aroma with
their wet-soiled lungs.
They reach for the sun
like pre-schoolers on playgrounds,
and rattle like snakes
in the garden dew,
and softly as feathers
they make beds for bunnies . . .
who else would find them
something to do?
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