J. Scott Brownlee
If you plant me in the mud,
I will refuse you. I won't grow.
I am too tendrilled—can't be tamed
with my fierce, feral roots. Growing
origin-less, there is no direction
on which you can rely to tell you
where I am. Never plant me
in the grass because I kill
every good thing I touch.
I'm a weed, so I'm desolation.
I have no song to sing
but the fallen one's tune.
Cast down out of heaven,
I bloomed despite falling—
burning blue and white-tipped
where my heat was greatest,
making every star in the sky
at the time flicker with brilliance.
Do not say I exist as some grand evidence
for a great Prime Mover. I am only the chaff,
the weed sentenced to Earth—thrown down
with Lucifer. But here, am I not prized
by the tourists who drive many miles
to see my blue soul scattered out
over this bleak country—making it
beautiful? Down from heaven I came
without hesitation—carving out
my own life. Let my Eden be
here or nowhere, I said then.
Let my new offspring thrive.
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