where the weeds grow in
crooked wicker thimbles
sideways in sin
but never wicked, only twisted
as the hole they were born in
taking the sunlight, hard and fast
for feast or famine, saving thirst for last
deeper roots, their greatest parts
growing harder when burned down
spiked and prickly, better learned
from life's hard lessons passed around.

In life they come and go
but in death --- 
autumn wind euologies,
travellers' tales ---
in death they really grow.