black eyed susans
by George Wallace

i see the bright face of this our still young and hopeful nation
more in a parkling lot weed than in the display
of its proud public gardens, untamed as the original
north american wild, outwitting us to the last
& filled with the breath, a continent wide,
of unplanned vitality.

in the lowest dandelion, in the fairy clover,
in the dusty sway of goldenrod where two highways merge,
the ragged memory of prairie grasslands calls out to me
& praises still sung to the sun-rippled expanse
of northern forest

i leave to europe the curve and grace
of horticultural refinement, manicured intention,
& tired topiary imagination & rather, stoop to worship here,
even at this crumbling bit of earth,
your voice america — stubborn, plain strangely

triumphant, so long as a single flower
raises up its head to greet the expectant sun,
i too shall greet, in celebration, the promise
of your ragged, wonderful world, which is the reason
why we came here in the first place

& yes, pretty as a patch of black eyed susans.

Copyright © 2003 George Wallace
Previously published in "the poems of augie prime", writers ink press, 1994
Reprinted by permission. All rights retained by author.