I seek you through poison ivy on the shoulders of roads.
Reaching through brambles my fingers stretch out
to capture you. You have lain here
through sunshine and rain, in ditches, in thorns,
in water and crushed by the mower.
Who was the last person who held you?
Were you thrown to your repose by a teen eating candy?
Or tossed from the cab of a truck
by a man after work? They let you become litter,
flaunting some misguided freedom
to toss things out of the car, talking and laughing
and looking away. All you I have gathered –
water bottles still full, Styrofoam cups for coff ee and
cream, bags for Doritos and cans for soda and Bud –
I haul to my driveway. Whoever threw you away on the
road should know that I throw you
out, too, as they could have done,
into the garbage, the recycle bin;
because I want order, consideration
for mother earth and a view that is pleasant in this little
village where we all live. - Anne Hanson, Florida