Just Weeds

To my father, they were merely weed patches spraud out and cradled

In the verdant arms of our lawn suffocating my mother’s bright yellow buttercups.

But for my sister and I, we didn’t see weeds or an unwanted sprout, we saw small purple Blossoms resting next to the pine trees late in the afternoon when the breeze would top the hill And make them dance to the song of the wind chime that hung upon the porch.

They were tiny little flowers which we rested upon as we stared up at the blue sky and watched The clouds take shape and where our dog would lay betwixt us as we enjoyed a Summer Afternoon.

And when the sun began to set and the sky began to change the purple petals stood as a stage while the lightning bugs danced and jigged to the hoot owl’s melody.

Then our mother would call us in after a day of play and we’d take our baths and get into bed and think about our patch, our little place, where those flowers grew.

Those flowers that our father thought were just weeds.

Reviews

[Jade]

This is such a lovely write here, most enjoyable

[George David Hope]

Being a gardener by trade a weed is classed as a plant growing in the wrong place but I to love the sight of wild flowers growing where ever they want..breaks up the monotony. I was once doing a garden that belonged to an old man and had spent ages taking out the weeds..when I got back to the start I noticed that all his polyanthus had been taken out and he stood there with a smile on his face. I asked who'd removed them and he said proudly that he had. I told him that they were flowers and should have been left in..he replied "Oh they are the good guys". So I put them back in and he disapppeared around the corner..when I went looking for him he'd only gone and pulled out the other polyanthus from around the other side of his garden..needless to say I never went back

[Cherrie Palmer]

What a treasured memory expressed so clearly with warm affections.

[Chris Shaw]

A lovely memory and I have always loved the daisies in the lawn and bindweed with their pale pink trumpets. Still very fond of wild flowers. Thank you.

Chris