Go for a walk and part of whatever you walk through rides back on your socks. Here Peter Everwine, a California poet, tells us about the seeds that stick to us, in all their beauty and variety.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
Until nightfall my son ran in the fields,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
looking for God knows what.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
Flowers, perhaps. Odd birds on the wing.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
Something to fill an empty spot.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
Maybe a luminous angel<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
or a country girl with a secret dark.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
He came back empty-handed,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
or so I thought.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
Now I find them:<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
thistles, goatheads,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
the barbed weeds<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
all those with hooks or horns<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
the snaggle-toothed, the grinning ones<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
those wearing lantern jaws,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
old ones in beards, leapers<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
in silk leggings, the multiple<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
pocked moons and spiny satellites, all those<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
with juices and saps<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
like the fingers of thieves<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
nation after nation of grasses<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
that dig in, that burrow, that hug winds<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
and grab handholds<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
in whatever lean place.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
It\u2019s been a good day.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/p>\n