Between the Old and the Knowing


Slightly elegant
in a tilted rambunctious way
with a noble sweep
one pace across and another tall.

Not overlooked by the young gardener
who knew no better
watered well, weeded around.

No doubt marvelled over,
the flower vaguely Oriental,
ruffled pods, rucked leaves,
a sure stem.

Until the old gardener
with all the grip
the old have on the young,
seizes it, lifts,
exposing the shallow and ridiculous root.
Age has made him sure of this one thing.

Heaped onto the trash pile
loudly and without a word
proclaimed: weed.


Bruce Hunter, Two O'Clock Creek: Poems New and Selected, Oolichan Books, 2010.