Lonely Weed in Spring
Lonely Weed in Spring
At the edge of a tended garden,
where tulips rehearse their rehearsed perfection,
a single weed lifts its uncertain green—
no invitation, no name on the plan.
Spring arrives anyway.
The wind, careless as a wandering thought,
braids sunlight through its thin fingers.
A shy dew clings to its spine at dawn,
like a secret it has no one to tell.
Around it, applause blooms in colors,
roses declare themselves in velvet tongues,
daffodils trumpet their small golden certainties,
and bees write busy scriptures in the air.
But the weed,
it listens.
It leans into the light not meant for it,
drinks from the same sky without permission,
roots itself in the overlooked grammar of soil
where no gardener bothers to read.
A child might pass and call it nothing.
A hand might pass and call it gone.
Yet for this brief, trembling season,
it holds a universe in its quiet stem.
The hum of earth rising,
the ache of becoming,
the stubborn miracle
of being alive
without being chosen.
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