An Ode to Weeds (or, A Response to Robert Burns)

My love is not a red, red rose

Not tall or haughty or quick to impose

But rather, I think, a Dandelion

With deep, strong roots and bearing proud

Though green leaves and color loud

His gentle emotions and thoughts aflyin’

Like the wispy seeds of a Dandelion

My love is not a proud white posy

Not cold and genteel but warm and cozy

As familiar as a single Daisy

Impudently cheerful, with a heart of gold

Waving in the wind, brave and bold

His words are clear; his thoughts not hazy

Like the brazen truth of the wild Daisy

My love is not a silvered lily

Not arrogant and seldom frilly

But common as a cornsilk Chicory

It’s soft blue color his inner calm

He is to my soul a soothing balm

He’s not beguiling, there is no trickery

But loves me humble, like the modest Chicory

My love is not a honeysuckle

Not simpering or weak, of soon to backle

But strong and tough as Thistle

When others intrude they meet his thorns

He guards that which he adorns

When I do wrong he doesn’t bristle

But in many ways, my love’s a Thistle

My love is common, my love is plain

But his heart’s emotions he does not feign

My love’s a simple, stately thing

Not one of those chic exotics

Compelled by compulsions and neurotics

Who could never compare to my heart’s one king

For love is a weedy kind of thing.

WindChaser

1997