What? were we blown by the breeze,
Our seeds uplifted by the wind
From forest meadows,
Wafted over garden walls,
To rest in secret for a season,
Scattered among the prim leaves,
Trimmed shoots, and cultivated flowers?
Spring turns us out—its well-meaning suns
And watering showers.
Even the rotting mulch,
Where worms crawl
Underneath the perfect boughs and roses
Give us life, encourage us to grow.
So up we pop like unexpected guests,
Their country cousins,
Crude and rude and colorful,
Passionate like hicks.