Galeazza Garden

Black Eyed Susans

I see the bright face of this our still young and hopeful nation
more in a parking 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 her,
even at this crumbling bit of earth,
your voice, America - stubborn, plain, strangely

triumphant. So long as a single unplanned 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.