Those wildflowers along the highway,

mixes of yellow and light pink,

and the Indian blankets I fell in love with

as a child.

I know most of them are weeds

pretending to be flowers,

but I try not to think about that too much.

I’m sure there’s a lesson

in there somewhere about a wolf in sheep’s clothing,

but sometimes I don’t think the weeds

are like that.

Maybe they’re trying to be deceitful;

maybe they just want

to be accepted,

to be looked at and smiled at

and not thought of as only a weed.

They can’t help it –

it’s what they are, and they have a job to do,

but it doesn’t mean they still

can’t have a little moment of happy

before they play the role of executioner.

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