Tumbleweed No More.
Ever wandering, seldom pausing, the ultimate wind catcher.
The tumbleweed is the hobo of flowers always looking for a better place to pause.
Tumbleweed No More.
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Tumbleweed set
in a clay pot,
hot glued
to its girth
gathering the
morning sun rays
with its
endless fingers.
Languishing it
squats in sorrow,
unmoved by the
north wind's whistle,
plucked free from
a roadside fence,
running through
New Mexico.
Most likely it is
the only tumbleweed
in all of Ohio
because no one else
would take one
home but me
and because I liked
its itinerant traveling
moved only by the
whims of the winds
It was not meant
to be handled
it has tiny little
sharp points that can
scratch flesh
It was once a
beautiful flower
that shed its
petals and leaves
and went on a
different path
unrooted and most
often traveling
in groups
Of course after dark
one might think
they were alive
as they roll by you
or brush your legs
in packs of
weathered brambles
It is an ancient traveler
and mine once rambled,
over endless desert plains,
till it was stolen in my
momentary longing
to be like it
Its age is unknown
it is a mobile fossil
that could be decades old
but oh, what great stories
it could tell
It would be fun
to set it free
on a windy day in Ohio
down inner city streets
and watch and film
the reactions of
northern folks who
watch it tumble by.
© 2010 Matthew Frederick Blowers III
