Little Weed

He grew up rusted in his tips

Settled between trees

Light brushing his thighs

But always the sweep of machines

cleaved at him.

He look all around

But was far from the top

And the ground, was but around now

“Oh my, please don’t rest me here!”

the afternoon came unbeckoned

His knees, how they seemed so sincere

The shake, was his heart

Filled with unrelenting fear

“I may be unbidden

But I could be just as great, if only you would listen.”

Oh what respect the little weed could earn,

What heartfelt landscapes, what fulfilling existence, what tearful joys

To see skies, and feel his soul burn

To grow and grow unhampered

Such a spell for a plant to be unachored

To be a weed, to be cleaved and bitten,

Is a breed of grit, a befuddled mission

Yet, his heart beat on, row after row more

Why just a bit more light, and he could be at peace for sure.

“I’m growing young, over and over again,

My life is prophecy

My will is made of cement.”

He grew up rusted in his tips

Spreading from his grave

His breath a steady candle

Blown out, time and time again.

Soon, and after time wore thin,

The little plant dropped his chin,

‘‘Twas then, the sun flickered low

And grabbed at him,

“My weed, you must be rather strong within,

For you have kept pushing on,

I shall grant one wish, thereupon,”

“Mother, I have only one wish for you,

Please, grant me a better view.”

“Little weed, I must insist,

You will not love the life, of such blissfulness,

There are others less sturdy than thyself,

Who have more need of such wealth,

Is there not anything else?”

“well no, not really, I am suffering here

This plot, is rather tiring,

Is life not made of more, than fear of expiring?”

He stretched to give his limbs more lease

Such beauty in his rusted peaks.

“My little weed, you are quite the endearing one,

I truly do wish to see you flourish

But you see, I’m uncertain of your wish.

Perhaps there is but one other way,

For you to soar, and not feel such looming grey.”

“Oh, how I long to stretch, to fly

To tickle earth, heavens, and dearest sky.”

“I understand you little dearest,

You, sweet weed, are richest in spirit

Forevermore, you will bloom, and find wings

And shall see all of the wind’s bidding,

She stroked his spine, up and down

His limps gathered high

And then with a snap, he was flying

“You, little weed, are hereby a dandelion.”

With a gust, a twirl, a sweet lullaby

The little weed, at last, could rise and suspire.