Who are we who cannot love a “weed”—

A burst of glory absent from our books,

Cheerfully settling unclaimed sweeps and nooks

And spreading—quite unbidden—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 looks 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’d plead

“Behold the soul in each” must be our creed—

This way, we’ll see the treasure in the weed!