Patches of Prostrata

There’s no pretty name for these
Ugly, toxic-sap making,
Prostrate, pioneering weeds.

Spurge. A name suggesting filth,
Violence, maybe slaughter,
All at once, to anglophones.

Spare a kind thought for brave weeds,
And not just because they’re kin,
Behaviorally, to you,

The weediest of species—
Watching a few patches crack
Through the weight of concrete slabs,

Bear in mind that all of life,
That life itself is weedy,
Eating its way through the stones.

The stones may be innocent
Of lives arising from them,
But life’s name is insistence.