I slip into work gloves
old muddy shoes
enter my garden 
to tend neat rows
of  vegetable friends. 
I’m almost always dismayed 
to see springing up
helter-skelter
everywhere around them,
in every available space 
with no apparent attention to 
any visible order,
weeds. 

What is a weed but 
a plant that 
no person has chosen
to exist in that particular location?
A sprout from an arbitrary mixture
of spore zygote 
a seed that fell where it dropped or
the wind blew it,
taking advantage of what came to it and 
growing in whatever soil was available
to it by chance,
making the most out of it.

Actually, I admire weeds.
I am always amazed 
at their sturdy power 
and tenacity.
I always feel bad 
when I pull them 
by their roots 
out of their earth home
and toss them in a pile to 
dry and die.

Who am I to select them for dying
in favor of their more delicate 
cousins whom I select for living solely 
for their supposed usefulness to me?
Who am I to decide what creature 
in this world lives or dies?

Also if the whole truth be told 
I feel bad because 
I’m a weed myself.
Are you a weed too?