Weed

I.

I’m a weed
trying to be a flower.
An envious shadow
surrounded by loveliness.
How I wish to be,
to be what isn’t me.

I see golden sunflowers standing tall and proud.
Roses, daisies, blooming marigolds
unfolding into the sun’s kiss.
The beauties of the garden
dancing delicately in the wind.

I still strain for light
that filters through the blossoms above.
Why am I never enough?
My colors dull,
my leaves are torn.
A wilting soul,
I feel alone.

If I paint myself
in brilliant hues,
Will I be loved too?
If I dress my petals
soft and supple,
and drench myself
in sweet aroma
Will I feel beautiful?
If I am a weed,
Will you only love a flower?

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II.

Maybe it’s not so bad to be a weed—
A weed does not wait
to be cared for,
to be told to grow.
It pays no mind if you deem it worthy
of standing alongside your roses and carnations and marigolds,
if you deem it worthy of taking up space.

Your garden
is just rows of little red bricks
that tell me I don’t belong.
I won’t pretend to be a flower,
because the sun and rain don’t know the difference.

Unintended, the weed thrives anyway—
My leaves might be torn,
but I am resilient.
When it’s bleak,
I’ll hide myself away in the soil.
Alone in the darkness,
I’ll begin to wither away,
but I’ll come back after the dry spells and icy winds have passed.
I am not a flower,
I won’t have soft beds made for me in the spring,
but I’ll be the spark of life that emerges from desolate soils.
Always, I’ll have more to give.

Maybe it’s not so bad to be a weed—
I’ll color the fields along lonely highways,
an invitation to stop and frolic for a while,
to go back to when you climbed trees and had grass stains on your knees.

Whisper your wishes to me,
and set me off faithfully
through the rugged waves of the wind.
A plume of pixie dust,
I’ll carry that twinkle you had in your eye
when you held me tight in your hot hand,
and gave me your most precious dream.

Maybe, a weed is loved.

 

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Featured Artwork: Mona Caron