These days it takes more than trowels to tame the weeds,

days in fact of sifting through the lists of plants pretending 

to be lawn.  I’ve read these masqueraders’ names, majestic sounds

that stop my hand and spade, would have me ask

why remove purslane, poor weed, not bad,

 ‘misunderstood’ the gardener’s dictionary says.

And so, with creeping sorrel, thistle, lambsquarters, 

my list grows long, my hand grows still, my task grows harder

than a simple yank or pull.

Maybe these weeds, like me, are simply misperceived,

can offer color, texture, more than ornamental fringe, by some

considered even good enough to eat.  I wonder if they know they

are impostors, a syndrome where I’ve roots,

feeling not quite green enough when blades must be virescent,

too unseasoned to be seen as sage.

And while I do remove some dandelions, deep roots beneath

the lawn so many feet, I take their puffball heads

and blow the seeds remembering

how I held their flowers long ago, as child,

when they, to me, were flowers, without pretense,

and I was who I was, without disguise.