Prairie Bishop
Weed, mosaic bunch
of white, you foamed up
in the front of the house
like you had something
to celebrate.
I almost said each tight bloom
like a starched collar,
but you are never so staid.
I practically hear you laughing
in your star formations.
What mirth you cast—tessellations
of brief shade—over the dog
snoozing under your stems.
She gives one beat of her tail
as I approach.
How right you are together,
each doing just what is necessary.
Aza Pace’s poems appear or are forthcoming in The Southern Review, Copper Nickel, Tupelo Quarterly, Crazyhorse, New Ohio Review, Passages North, Mudlark, Bayou, and elsewhere. Read more.