Weeds

All flowers once bouqueted the earth

Blooming, untended, from their birth;

Till man selected special seeds

And left the rest to grow as weeds.

That sprout with pride from spring through fall,

Not knowing they are weeds at all.

There is no way a weed could know

It grows unwanted from the start.

So unaware, it strives to grow,

And stirred to life, it blooms--by heart!

By Jean Carpenter Welborn