I’m a weed. There, I’ve said it, and I guess I have finally accepted it. I didn’t want to be a weed (who does?), and when I was just beginning to grow, I really though my tender green sprout was a daffodil or a daisy or (hope against hope) a majestic red rose.
But no, in time I realized that I was just a common, ugly weed in a patch of sibling weeds. But perhaps in my next floral rebirth, if I’m deemed worthy, maybe I will be a tulip or a dahlia or that elusive rose.
But no, in time I realized that I was just a common, ugly weed in a patch of sibling weeds. But perhaps in my next floral rebirth, if I’m deemed worthy, maybe I will be a tulip or a dahlia or that elusive rose.
