If I fail to find,
in this brambly tangled place,
any metaphors,
it’s my fault. The roads run straight,
stitch pastures into patchwork.
Henbit stains those fields
purple. If tiny blooms join
forces, why not we?
Later as the barn crumples,
asters still stand by the fence.
— Anne Baber
The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative 