Ruderal

We are weak words and our roots are shallow,
But we are quick and weedy, first on scene
With thousands of seeds, needing no fungi

To barter to support us. We love this
Wayside gravel bed—we love the rubble.
Times are good right now, the roads are busy,

And people keep disturbing everything.
Tarred maintenance alone lets us flourish,
All your traffic in unnaturalness,

As is your nature. The forest’s waiting,
We know, and the native tall-grass prairie,
To crowd us off our wayside strips of turf,

But we’ll cling to any swift erosion,
And somewhere Earth will always be disturbed.