Gift

by TARA K. SHEPERSKY

Weeds are easy to love, so
generous. Take the common
roadside thistle. I could learn delight
from those plumb-weight petals
the color of a full moon’s rise in June.
I could learn from the thousand
August-bursting wishes
embracing each other, then traveling
into the wide unlistened-to
how scarcity might be something
I mostly imagine.
I could learn to imagine instead
resurrection.
Spines crumpled,
fine straight carriage
kneeling to death come timely,
easing the will downward into soil.
Shaping a stretched silence
nobody wanted.  

Winter carries, when I cannot, trust
in some kind of spring.