Make me a weed,

a wild and restless thing,

too burning for a flaming sky

to green myself in shade.

Make me a weed,

with roots as thin as sparks,

with leaves that dance in summer heat

like campfires on a plain.

Make me a weed,

the strider of the squall,

strange tower above rooted grass,

an iceberg overturned.

Make me a weed,

browned and dried by flame,

charred and withered from fires within,

an ash on earth’s hot brow.

1978

from Text and Commentary (Mandala Publishing).

For my thoughts about writing this poem, follow this link.