The Weed

My sister loved milkweed, flower and plant,
Bland-toned, upsprung. The odd dim smell,
Faint fuchsia drench of color coated white
In the brown weed-clusters.
          Sister, I can’t
Find you on all the long hard walks of the night. . . .
(Travail of lost-person-always-hunted-for.)
Day shows the visible universe, humbles to this:
Comfort, greaf weed.
           I circle down . . . .
Cluster, odor, color; blast of green wind from the dark earth’s core.