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”!