No one has planned
what grows in this ditch:
a couple of wild irises,
dark purple; and lighter
purple thistles whose leaves
imitate white rock; and then
the small, drooping blue flowers
whose leaves and stems are hairy
(I swear) and also
silvery; and wild mustard,
spindlier and higher than the rest,
with pale joints like Tinkertoys.
I'm leaving out the yellow
dandelion and the strange
colorless flowers with black
dots in the center of pale green
cups that the bees love so
that they make bee parties
and get unruly and make a racket.
(I swear, I had to stop
and figure it out!)
I say I saw a rock lizard, too,
flecked black and gray with bits
of what looked like rock
hanging from him.
I looked at him.
He became a rock.
So much seems to aspire

to be dry, white, and rocklike
in the pit of the ditch
and it isn't only
the failure I admire.