A taciturn, waltzing monarch
and a purring bumble bee,

merry in their element
on a joe-pye weed, 

that makes three.

I am the weed's flower
growing to the sun,
enjoying every kind of weather
that passes swiftly on,
a reperoire of song.

Don't cut me down,
put me in a vase.
I'm happy from my rooted toes
to my flower face and out
into conscious space.

If you do, I will content me,
for a day or two stay strong.
When I die, put me under
my joe-pye weed
where I belong.