Tumbleweeds aren’t the ones who shed tears
As they roll carelessly through the desert,
Just dead Russian thistle,
A mere botanical skeleton,
But a symbol of loneliness
For the people in all those old Western movies
Where the ghost towns are really home to ghosts,
And the ghosts are those of dead Russian thistle,
And their skeletons roam the desert
Without a care in the world.
They jump,
And they skip,
And they fly across the windswept dunes,
And as these acrobats demonstrate their skills,
They spread out their seeds,
Posthumous gardening,
As a way to preserve their memories
And disperse throughout the otherwise empty landscape,
Beginning the cycle once more
And living vicariously through their new offspring.
Some call them wind witches,
But the wind only pushes them along.
Don’t credit tumbleweeds with magic
When they deserve no special praise.
They simply lived,
And then they died,
And yet they still pour out their seeds,
A feat many humans attempt as well,
Though their seeds are only words,
Their saplings being mere memories.
But we so often pity the skeletons.
We pity the wind witches.
We pity the tumbleweeds.
Because they’re shriveled and dried and so far gone.
But maybe Russian thistle,
With its once green flesh,
A beloved meal for mice and sheep,
Is supposed to tumble,
And maybe everything’s just supposed to end.
Maybe all Russian thistle
Is just dead Russian thistle,
And maybe seeds
Just live to die,
To continue their legacies
For generations to come
Through new roots that cling to aged soil,
Just like old words resting in new ears,
Because death only exists for the living,
And through them the dead never die.
Maybe if their seeds are distributed,
And new plants begin to sprout,
With their spiny leaves of dulled green
And faded pink tufts of flower
Nestled serenely within the powdery desert sand,
Then tumbleweeds have no need to shed tears.