Almost uniform, the weeds have overtaken the hill-slope,
defiant, unkempt, a strict reminder of an absence.
Near the sidewalk they lean toward the chainlink fence,
brushing through like the fingers of something caged,
hidden in the midday shadow of the house at the hilltop.
This morning they were vibrant, a yellow-petaled crop,
green stems more green than the sod they influence,
thin and thinking of growing fat, and of leaving grace
for the evening. But it’s evening, and the petals paid
their due for wishes; round as the moon; white as hope.