Wedge wood chicory grows in a confusion of profusion
on the side of the road.
By early July, edges of back roads,
side roads, dusty dirt roads,
are rainbows of day lilies, lupine and daisies,
creating the yearly pleasure of
cruising country lanes,
voyages just to look
at the hem of Her skirt,
her blushing flirt,
the rare turn of Her
naked, crayola ankle.
But.
Today, in some sort of preemptive strike against encroachment,
the town tractor, blades whirling, cut down Nature
to impose come supervisors vision of order.
They raped Her in Her finery,
deflowered Her virginal gifts
so some drunk won’t careen off the road
on to a carpet of beauty.
In mid-day, with eye witnesses wizzing by,
the violent rapine visited against Her
went on and on without a guilty blink!

So.

Know this.
God does not ,
wearily dose in some
gold throne in the heavens.

God is in the chicory.