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.
Pen in Motion 