Look how the weeds lay here, bent,
leaning, and yet catching the light just so.
Such haphazard beauty, unintended,
yet inevitable, I suppose, an expression of
its nature, a variant of its song.
And look how it’s hidden, right here
in plain sight. You could walk by and think
it was no more than a tumble of weeds.
But perhaps it’s a gift, waiting for an artist’s eye
to see in it a golden boat on a frothy sea.