So pressured, my hands are again
Set against the plants I love.

Some of the visitor plants
Are brought here by the wind,
Others are delivered by birds
Who say add these to the garden
We will use them all summer long.

For sixty years I have pulled up
Dandelions, yet
To the delight of children –
And the bane of civilization –
They survive.

Once in my teen years
I gathered the yellow petals
Of dandelions and made wine.
(Thank you, Mr. Bradbury.)
One bottle came about
And was shared with a friend
In his parents’ mobile home.
It had a haunting taste.

An hour of sweating in
The afternoon sun is enough,
A judicious pulled plant here
And few vines pulled there will suffice
For the passing, judging eyes,
While, I, in more hidden places
Will continue to enjoy the beauty
Of the immigrants from the wild.