Some of my poems are seeds,
some of them are weeds.
All of them sprout everywhere,
for good-bad, over your living things.
I never know which will
be seedy or weedy.
I don’t preserve them
between sheets of paper.
They’re not museum specimens
or even a nicely cultivated garden.
They’re cast in the wind
for anyone to have them.
The ones you love, let them
bloom on your windowsill,
the ones you don’t love, cast
them to the earth to reseed.
or rearrange my words to
make a canto of your heart.
If you want, you can smoke them,
just give me credit for the high.
Either way, there’s a bumper crop
for you to harvest and feed on.
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