Wind sweeps the dirt from
the freshly-cut grass to cleanse
it of filthy tracks
made by mankind’s grief
and pity with a hint of
formaldehyde laced
between blades of green.
Seen as weeds they tremble in
fear of those whom glare
and prey on the weak
because they will never be
so strong in stature.
But the roots are soon
reminded that they are the
ones who hold the key
to potential growth
when the clouds weep for the weak
and giants flee for
fear of striking light.
And the “weeds” are then able to
feed and conquer those
who bloom with ease and grace, not a step out of place,
nor in order because beauty isn’t a mold, nor a pot.
