 Because we wanted things the way they were in our mind's black eyes, we waited. The beaver raising ripples in a V behind his head, the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow where you don't want it. A dahlia could be a weed, or love, or other notions. The heart can't choose to find itself enchanted. This poem is about John and a friend waiting to shoot a beaver that's taken over the friend's palm, a pretty common practice in the country.