September 2013 Ode to a Weed Tall as my waist and glistening green. Such glory. Such magnificence. This great weed of weeds I am sure in another world would be ruler, king, monarch. Even its trunk, hairy as it is, tender to the touch though sturdy and strong, is wet with life. With both hands I hug and tug until the pink roots at my feet, loosen, let go the loam. I hold Weed aloft, admire each lancelate leaf, each sleek branch, each sweet stem, all hidden so joyously, so cleverly behind my phlox and foxgloves. I lay Weed gently atop my mulch pile. lean over to say, pray. O Weed, we are our own kind, raw and unrefined for a world that wants only an approved beauty, order at our expense.
— Ruth Moose
PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . September 2013
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