Weeds

Struggling down Northrop, neck bent
under the cruel weight of the sun, I
bless each slight breeze that brushes
my cheek—a movement which barely

sways the branches of the trees, but
which is still strong enough a hand to
play this overlooked and over-stepped
instrument: these clumps of wheat-like

weeds—pushing through cracks in the
sidewalk and cramped between the too-
steep driveways—gently swaying their
glassy purple heads in the subtle wind,

a whistling choir whispering their flute-
like song for my weary and grateful ears.