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
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