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 