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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