Weeds

Precious little faulted flower

Growing in unknowing haste,

If only others understood

The longing there upon your face.

The struggle in the horrid hearing

That you must always know your place,

The fruit you harvest

And then offer,

Oft neglected.

Such a waste.

 

Out of touch and out of luck,

Will any stop to plead your case?

Or shall you bide your precious season

Longing for a fond embrace?

 

Seize the moment that is gift to

Every entry in your race.

Find the favor,

Yours to savor.

Even weeds succeed with grace.

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