Who are we who cannot love a “weed”—
 A burst of glory absent from our books,
 Cheerfully settling unclaimed sweeps and nooks
 And quite unbidden, spreading vigorous seed?
 Who are we who cannot love a “weed”?

 We “edit” plants but excise ones we need:
 The improv genius in our landscapes’ scenes
 Bests browns of mulch with blossom-tones and greens
 And asks not even thank-you’s for the deed.
 Who are we who cannot love a “weed”?

 Spring picks no villains from among its flowers;
 Nature is liberal in the grace it dowers
 Every child of hers, wild thing and breed.
“Fine gardeners’ ” admonishments mislead;
 They’d keep a peony, though it's a fright

 By summer—trim and tend it as one might—
 Yet wrest wild aster, with its effortless grace
 From its self-appointed place
 Where floral primadonnas would recede.
 Who are we who cannot love a “weed”?

 It earns its rightful space, let's just concede,
 So why not measure virtues and not names?
 Our unbred lovelies have their own sweet games
 Of fragrance, form, and habit, too. I plead
“Behold the soul in each” should be our creed—
This way, we’ll see the treasure in the “weed”!