My friends, The Weeds

Give me a good weed any time.
Stronger than the manicured grass,
able to thrive in thickets and the small cracks
in rocks and sidewalks.
They grow, even when the neighbors
don’t want them. They fight back
when poisoned. They survive the worst of winters,
they survive weeding,. No matter what,
they grow
beautiful
and I never know if they are laughing at us,
or shaking their fists in defiance.
Either way, I love them.

About this poem

I relate to weeds. So, a poem about those diligent denizens of yards and roadsides, and so many people I know, myself included. I know a lot of weeds.

The picture was taken across the street from my house. In the slate quarry.

Tom