Weeds & Wires

Walking home, I often admire

the sidewalk, with her weeds and her wires.

A pillar, now severed, held ions prior

and shot them up towers, higher and higher,

for flicks of light switches in rooms without fire,

for screens or fans, stoves or dryers,

for hungry computers who longed to inquire

about the world behind them until they tire.

But it never could rest, so the pillar did crack,

spilling open with tangles of wires that lack

a current, a life, a direction, a track—

alloys filling space it’ll never gain back.

The rainbow of this copper is empty and thin,

panels and tubes destined for a waste bin.

So the earth, in her generosity, dug in,

turning plastic into a pot where life can begin.

Weeds hug the circuits of retired wires,

pink stems pouring out from where cords once transpired.

Sage, leafy infants born to inspire

new energy here, a kind which requires

no smog, soot, or gases, no justifier

for the pillar’s former consequences dire.

But rather, new roots will let us respire,

close our hungry computers, and feed this small brier.

Making good on a promise to which we aspire:

To grow goodness where we can, even weeds in wires.

Thirsty