Weeds

A beautiful rose in your garden!                                

See the rose! Smell the rose!  Love the rose!       

A beautiful rose in a wheat field,                              

Is sadly no more than a weed.    

                               

That golden brown awn on a wheat shaft,            

Feeding mankind for thousands of years ,              

In a rose bed carefully tended,                                  

Is a curse, just simply a weed.       

                                            

Dandelion fluff balls set to the wind,                       

To poets and artists are beauty.                                                

But on the greensman’s manicured sod,               

In spite of their glory, they’re weeds.        

             

The milkweed with lovely pink blossoms,             

And packed silky snowy seed cases,                        

While food for the monarch – midst clover,          

Belying their beauty, they’re weeds.     

                 

The cannabis plant oft is argued,                              

As both curative and an escape.                                

To those who belittle its purpose,                            

While named other names, it’s still “weed.”    

    

We chop and spread poisons to kill them –

To keep weeds from our arbors and glens.

We take pains to name all the flowers,

And that – unnamed thing’s – just a weed.

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Be you wheat or some other flower,

When you’re seen at the end of each day,            

Will The Planter see you worth keeping?                              

Or see you, my friend, as a weed?    

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© S P Wilcenski 2020       

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