The dark of night envelopes me in clouds of pain I
cannot bear
Pain that’s like an old companion whose ugly fashion
I won’t wear
Or bow beneath its will to tame me or yoke me
in its wide scope
I’m not a hostage in its grasp who’s doomed
to suffer without hope
I’ll fight the way that God has shown
with prayers of faith that my lips sing
While angel arms save and guard me
and carry me upon their wing.
It seems to me the infant child
Imbues the world with his sly smile
The helpless babe in slumber lies
Yet woos you with his half- closed eyes,
The fragile hand that reaches out
To grasp your nose can leave no doubt
That here in one small bundle grows
The dearest gift that mankind knows.
How can you pluck even the smallest weed
That does spring and grow from the meanest seed
Whose path whistled on the wind’s sowing song
Whence carried to earth’s bed and there belonged?
Now we’ve called them each by some awkward name
And we’ll stunt their spread or we’ll make them tame.
A weed is a whisp of unwanted fare
That lives by a road when others won’t dare.
It covers a meadow that grass will shun
Or bides in a spot that greets not the sun.
Weeds are a blessing in myriad ways
Craftily seen on the plainest of days,
Flaunting their garb with a bit of aplomb
At times when even the bees cease to hum.
A weed’s like a thought that fear can’t destroy
Using up space that none else will employ,
Forcing us all to encounter some things
We’d sooner forget life’s mutiny brings.
Claire V. Bogdanos 