Most do not see me
for the pink pirouette of the everlasting,
the golden glow of the coreopsis,
the fireworks of the devil’s darning needles.
But I, who create a field of white lace,
am invisible. Even when summer’s
colorful pallet begins to fade, most do not
notice the complexity of my unfolding,
my skirt of fern-like bracts atop a hairy stem,
my thin, pliable stalks clutching hundreds
of microscopic snow-white blossoms waiting
to unfurl my delicate bouquet to the world.
In that royal moment of dazzling white,
I attract color to nature’s fading garden
as the Viceroy, with its flame-orange wings,
alights for nourishment. But most
still ignore me, for they have dismissed me
as a weed. Their admiration is heaped
upon the butterfly. But not all.
Your gaze is an August rain and I extend
my roots deeper into the earth’s soil.
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