Some admire the rose imperial,
others dote on mums.
Some laugh at the faces of pixie pansies,
contend with drought cactus
laud boutonniere carnations,
flag the Iris or exhale lilacs
but who extols the weed
the lowly, lovely flower
only God waters and sees?

The heath has bell shaped flowers
that ring no matter.
The buttercup churns making bees pollen.
Honey for their church and hive.
A hike would be all gorse save for the heather
whose kit bag and kilt
is more plaid than plaid.

I like to think love
is as wild and strong as the weed.
A shepherd's purse no miser pinches
that feeds all, shines all, blesses.
But only a feast if you're hungry.
Only a glint of gild if you're looking.
Only a blessing if you're hoping and needing.

O the walks I could have walked better
like a stag instead of a hound.
At home, not hunting.
Used by the wind to carry me aloft,
buttered not burnt by the sun.
Draw closer.
The seedpods of the shepherd's purse
are in the shape of hearts.
Only look
for the four leaf clovers underfoot.