Weedy Eschatology

The aging street mourns its faded splendor. It remembers having red tulips and roses in manicured, fertilized, emerald lawns in community yards lining its borders. But neighborhoods gradually decayed, and nobody’s planted flowers in years. The asphalt’s once-black fresh-tar patina is now gray and chockfull of countless cracks. In those rifts grow rows of feral weeds that no person planted or wanted. Rooted in forgotten fissures of the world, weeds lift their hearts and heads toward the sky. Survivors of severe environments, baked by blazing sun, infrequently watered, deprived of easy access to nourishing soil, and squashed by droves of mutilating tires. Yet, still the stalwart weeds survive, paragons of beautiful resilience. Glamorous, fragile flowers are transient. Plain, ordinary weeds are forever. For humans who feel our messy lives are more like run-over weeds than roses, weeds’ wild fortitude foreshadows an unexpected, untamed eternity.