Buttonweed

You don’t know how you help me.
They say you came here in the wheels of a cattle truck.
Your establishment below our precious crowd,
beyond the generations who say it’s always on Sunday,
is power-driven. Conscious and unconscious join
in declaration, like in the movies when the dancers
are swirling around you and with each turn
you root yourself deeper in the clay.
And in winter, when you disappear,
you have the nerve to hide a little green.