When the others whisper about the past,
they remind me I am nothing but a weed.
From where we’ve spread,
I can almost see the old garden
filled with flowers
and the most ethereal are
the purple tulips
I am younger than the other weeds
and I do not understand
why we are chopped down
not treated with the care the flowers receive.
We are the same color,
why can’t we be treated with the same care?
They say we are pushed out because we wanted to spread,
that we thought if there were more of us,
one day we might also be treated with love.
But our roots spread too far,
and now none of us reach even the edges of the garden.
Every year, the roots are all that remain,
chopped down to return again the next year.
We prepare for the day
that the roaring
of the weed eater
tears us apart again.
But this time, the roaring doesn’t come.
All we see is a shadow,
a tall, human shadow,
and then a pale hand and a kind face.
Her voice is light,
tinkling like a small bell,
and in her bright smile we know
that finally someone sees us
as more than a mass ofweeds.