These Weeds of Ours

Weeds are such personal plants.
They seem like intruders,
Breaking into our beds
And stealing the sun and soil,
Strangling and starving their more noble neighbors.
So we pluck them when we can.

We weep as we watch them pile up,
A day by day decay
Of fetid filth,
Filling up the secret corners of our lives.

And yet, over years,
They start to fall apart,
Turning over gently
In the heat of our hearts.

Then, slowly,
A soft sweet loam
Forms the fertile folds
That feed the seeds
Of fruits and flowers.
These weeds of ours.

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