She calls my vase of zinnias weeds,
claiming they took over her garden.
I tell her I plant them each spring
and love how more flower when I cut them.
Weeds. A word that smacks of trash.
Means something to root out.
How I grew up in a trailer park is something
people tend to forget or ignore
as if mobile homes are mushroom rings
popping up to mar a field or lawn.
I get it.
As an exchange student, I called Frankfurt quiet,
too quiet because I couldn’t hear bugs.
No crickets. Not even cicadas shredding
the sky. The noise of traffic and crowds
didn’t register because I wanted, and still do,
what is wild, what blooms too much.