aphorism of the weeds

as I was walking

beside the plaza, the cafe

with its tables out in the evening,

the sound of wealthy chatter

with its rich slick suspended in the air

like crisco in pastry dough

that was when

the last birds were trilling

and the maple were shedding

tiny scores of petals to hush the walks

someone down the block was gardening and making

weeds anxious for twilight

to turn to night

and these had a little saying

how it seems for every pleasant thing

some other thing will suffer

the flowers were nodding their gentle heads

purest turf spread across their knees