Weeds

A poem I wrote years ago, not much depth to it, but pleasant enough in its own way...perhaps it is to a poem as a weed is to a flower ;-)

Weeds

They are the rabble
of the garden
despised by the
more cultivated
yet sturdy and prolific
venturing where
tamer blossoms
fear to grow

Much adored
in children's posies
their only sin, not
to be included in
that elite class,
the flowers,
destined never to
be part of a bouquet

outcasts, yet full
of life, wild, untamed
and free, and despite
adult disdain, still
frequented by
butterflies and bees,
nature's riff-raff
growing where
they please.