Orange hawkweed


I don’t mind my feet stuck in hardpan
or moss between my toes.
I don’t mind the drought
and I don’t mind the storm.
I have no need to fly
anything but my colours.
I’m content with my place beside this old post
and I know the old post doesn’t mind me.
At times I catch him staring
scratching his chin with wire,
wondering how I close and curl,
lounge in the ear of night
at the throat of loneliness,
go deep within a hushed repose
and unfold in the morning.

I exaggerate my orange in the early sun
and I watch him over my shoulder, go
what I think is all agog,
while I dress.
I do it for him.
It pleases me.
He’s been up all night
so not to miss it.
And after all, I have such competition
—from the oxeye daisy
and the tall buttercup—
for his attention.


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