Wild Chicory

A poem, in lieu of all the things I did not write this summer:

Wild chicory

I love wild chicory, she said. It grows
Exactly where it wants, and nowhere else.

And it is so: the tangled stems unfold,
Turning their eyes to greet the morning sun,
Defiant blue under the summer sky,
Heedless of order that I would impose
Upon this bit of earth.

I would have mowed
Sooner, but there were post-vacation wasps
Needing to be evicted from the wall,
Tangles of creeping bindweed, crisping grass –
One thing led to another till the yard
Filled with impertinent upstarts:
As early dandelions are to spring,
So is to August the wild chicory.

I love wild chicory, she said. It grows
Exactly where it wants, and nowhere else.

Close up shot of a purpleish-blue flower with many petals on a narrow square stem.

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