Cemetery Rose

by Laura G. Weldon

I’m beginning to see
beyond weeds
to hungry impulse.

Thistle roots reach through
suffocating clay soil,
defiant flowers stretch
bristling above all others.

Milkweed sprouts
where berries were planted.
The scent lies thick in the air
summoning monarchs.

What flourishes takes hold
with unseen will,
despite the hubris
of our genus, earth’s
rampant weed.

Spreading mint pushes aside
delicate plants,
wild strawberries arch
through shadowed grass.

A climbing rose claims an entire wall
obscuring a cracked window
gracing a side door.
Given this cutting I was told
the hardiest plants grow in old cemeteries.
Untamed, ignored, they are ancestors
of the weak-willed tea rose.
Its first year, the cutting covered the trellis.
Now blossoms the color of a baby’s tongue
reach beyond the roof
lapping up light.