I am comfortable lying
in the weeds
looking at the sky
be it warm summer or musty fall.
I like watching the bugs
crawl, the flight patterns
of butterflies and bees, chewing
stems and smelling the grass-
earthy scent around me, contrails
etching across turbulent clouds
unfolding images locked
in my head. I listen
for any sounds: trains, voices,
planes, the occasional car
driving by, barking dogs,
chain saws, the thumping of
my heart, the wind in the trees
and in my chest.
No one can see me there
buried flat as a fawn.
Sometimes I’m with a friend,
but it’s best by myself
because the silence is all mine.
Those who jump to disagree
with my proclamation of loving it
“in the weeds” probably haven’t
been there face down
with the beetles and ants,
eye-level to voles, then rolling
over to watch hawks hover
in thermals against the blue.
I guess to those figurative souls
“in the weeds” is to be lost—
“at sea” or at least “in a funk”—
certainly it has to be an inability
to act decisively. Of course, for me
that’s the most interesting place
to be, literally in the here and now
of this constantly transforming
magical trip, that wonderland
we paid more attention to as kids—
uncertainty—call me Peter Pan
if you will, but I love it
deep in the weeds.