My Perennial Weeding

Echinacea, delphinium, clematis—

unlike marigold, unlike zinnia, annuals

that flame bright and burn quick and die for good—

put no effort into getting noticed

that first season. Small and indistinct

to my inexpert eye,

they dress down like the old Greek gods among the common folk.

You can’t tell them from weeds.

They are slow, patient plants.

I forget where I have planted them.

I don’t buy them in flats like tomatoes, but every February sprinkle their tiny seeds

upon the surface of expensive dirt and lay them under the maternal glow

of electric sunlight.

        Meanwhile in the garden, last year’s survivors,

emerge, unglorious, vulnerable

to the lust of my springtime enthusiasm.

                  Oh, yes. Come April,

when their coddled cousins in the house are two small leaves

that could be any plant at all, and the first grasses

are just pushing up among the crystals of dew,

these promising, mad perennials press up indistinctly like shy

homeless children, hoping I, in my zeal to make the world a better place,

will not see them.