they call them weeds they
burn them over,
bury roots under brick, they
hate to see those colorful faces, they
hate a life that’s not chemically dependent,
that doesn’t need sold, they
call them weeds they
refuse their fragrance, they’d
rather not be
ruling meadows.
Native Flowers
I love this perspective that treats even weeds as a thing of beauty that belong somewhere!
Thank you! Growing up on the farm, my dad always used to say that every weed was a flower somewhere. it always stuck with me and I definitely reference that sort of displacement frequently