The taproots grow twisted, brittle and deep,
the stalks, hollow as bird bones.
Grandmother’s edible, bitter greens.
After the bloom—feathery heads, perfectly
proportioned—the seeds strut from its crown,
shuttle-cocked to better ride the breeze.
Clustered tufts bend and fly scattershot
toward the wide and ready fields,
each gesture nonchalant and fruitful.
Like teams of white-skirted angels hell-bent
on a mission, they dance and dust the air
with helter-skelter knots of themselves.
All summer, the dutiful wind will purse her lips
and blow the little heads bald.
© by Gail Braune Comorat.
Used with the author’s permission.