But weeds I admire more than any flower

Which, mentionably, I do not disdain

More than any other kind of plant.

I do happen to like them more than most things

But that is merely to say 

That I harbor an appreciation for weeds

They flower in the frigid winter

And no cold wind deters them

And even icy rain spurs them into growth

And they spring up in their summer sprigs

When the sun is scalding with its scathing gaze

Yet these weeds do not flinch

But stare right back with equal fervor

The roots of a weed find a home anywhere

Whether unpleasant or idyllic

Sand or dirt or mud or gravel or slush (probably)

Any hill is suitable

Any home is met with equal grace and earnest

And how could I detest something that could never be ungrateful?

We have a thing or two to learn from these weeds, I think

And even when the world cries “Ugly!”

“Useless!” “Waste of garden space!”

The weeds remain

And no hoe can hold them down

Or tear them out for good

For as sure as your bottom dollar

They will make their guest appearance

Year after year, month after month

Until their familiar families huddled in bright green masses

Come smiling back at you in the morning

And sigh as you might, a part of your heart admires the sight

There is beauty there and you know it to be true

So don’t hate the weeds!

But don’t feel too bad for plucking them

Because, well, you know-

They’ll be back again soon