Profusion where the garden meets the field uncultivated—
there grows cousin weed, but even so related to the mulched
and sprayed and staidly lined in careful rank—
the rising bank of coddled flowers,
the blue-bloods of the blooms.
With extensive expectations from the winter catalog,
gardeners gaze agog at pricy acclamations
where clever propagation offers multiple collections
of flowers of pure perfection.
Unlike poor weed.
Weed mangles, tangles, wrangles for life at any angle—
it clings and springs and even stings to make its errand known.
Never prone to fungus and to blight,
it fights selections of infections
and takes them in its stride.
A virile weed.
Woe to a small intruder that pervades the royal bed!
A baby weed dares show its head of lusty healthy green—
it snuggles in between the phlox and heliotrope
and hopefully expands and starts to grow.
An optimistic weed.
A full brigade of weaponry immediately appears—
shears and trowels, rakes and hoes—
lethal herbicides
that snidely shrivel, burn and bleach—
each raised to slay a small defenseless
plant within the hour.
Poor little weed, how could you know
you weren’t a lovely flower?