Weeds have flowers too.


The first to come into view, when the winter retreats and the sun warms the land.


They're on hand, to taste the drops of melting snow and polluted muddy row.


The first to make a stand on poisoned land, where nothing else will grow.


Clinging to barren, charred, forbidden soil, as if guided by nature's hand to renew.


And yes, they're ugly, scrawny, and straggly to the sight.


But they struggle, against all odds, like you and me, to flower and spread their seed.


It's not an evil deed.


For to birds and bees, and countless creatures too small to see, they're the land of milk and honey.


And you who would pull one out, I challenge you to look closely.


Then you will see peerless beauty in the tiniest of flower, exquisite leaf and myriad color.



You may try to stamp them out; but in the end, they win.


Transported by full belly or errant wind, they will reseed again.


And cover the naked Earth, every barren spot.


And long after you are dead and gone, the weeds that grow on your grave are not.


Copyright 1998 © Ronald W. Hull




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