weeds heed no measure of time
save perhaps the ticking of rain

or the slow circle of seasons
in their own meter

they climb their way
through the creases and the concrete

splaying themselves before the sun
the dragonfly red bodied and resting

so patient upon the warmth of the garden stone
it has no word for pastpresentfuture

there is only now
and now

is always enough
be wary of power

of those who        collect and wield it
of those who        conscript and twist it

be wary of all that prattle and blather
it has absolutely nothing to do with power

or weeds
or dragonflies