Weeds

Driving from school to his mother's
My son, whose ten year-old mind illuminates
All, but most of all me,
Listened to me say, "Back in Brooklyn, before..."
He and is twin sister were,
We had a tree, a cherry, which bloomed like those
We noted out of the car window into Spring.

I told him of a vine of rose behind
That brownstone in a transitional neighborhood and
Time in my life, which did not concern him,
But which, if I were to take the time to explain, could,
If he chose later to explore.

The vine overwhelmed all
And then my wife, not yet his mother,
Decided the thousands of blooms,
Thick blood red, pocking all vision with bright hue
When looking through the ten foot windows
Of a century prior to that vision,
Should go.

She cut it down, or better yet
Ordered it so,
And instead grew a manicured garden
Asian in reference and fine.

That was the time I learned "weed"
Is that which gardener deems intruder.
He wondered, "Anything that overwhelms other plants?"
"No, just a choice."
And thinking about what he was thinking,
I added, "The only true weed in any garden is--
"Us," he finished.