A dear friend, Sue Woods, gave Paul and me a copy of this poem after hearing about the mullein video:
Disturbed earth: some plants sprout quickly in it. Sow thistles come to mind. After you've wrenched them out they'll snake back underground and thrust their fleshy prickled snouts in where you intended hostas.
Hawkweek will do that. Purslane. Purple vetch. Marginals, hugging ditches, flagrant with seed, strewing their paupers' bouquets.
Why is it you reject them, them and their tangled harmonies and raffish madrigals? Because they thwart your will.
I feel the same about them: I hack and dig, I stomp their pods and stems, I slash and crush them. Still,
suppose I make a comeback - a transmutation, say - once I've been spaded under? Some quirky growth or ambush?
Don't search the perennial border: look for me in disturbed earth.