They are not native,
the Queen Ann’s Lace, chicory
and birdsfoot trefoil
that add so much to the country drive,
as they wave back and forth
from the shoulder of the road.
Their success, I have read,
is measured in how well they adapt
to harsh conditions,
how they thrive
in adverse circumstances.
When my parents invaded
from overseas,
spilling like bilge, like zebra muscles,
some would say,
from the hold of a boat,
they lived in a driving shed
attached to a barn.
The farmer, and the farm work,
were brutal. My parents did better
than survive.
The nature-guide further states
that non-native trees
may add a green splash to the landscape,
but do not attract insects,
which are adapted to native trees,
and therefore do not interest
or attract birds.
I stand here, a non-native son,
though born on this soil,
and walk my walk,
banging through the woods
cowbell around my neck
head in a cloud of bugs,
birds nesting in my beard,
searching for a place that will call me home.
“Invasive Species” first appeared in John Terpstra’s collection Call Me Home published by Gaspereau Press, Kentville, Nova Scotia, 2021
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
