The Weed At The Edge Of The Lawn

They tutted at me this morning,
trowels in hand and purpose proud—
“You’re not supposed to be here,“
they said, and muttered right out loud.

I nodded, as weeds are known to do,
with leaves all wrong and roots too plain.
I’ve never asked for compliments—
just sun, and wind, and maybe rain.

I don’t stand tall like tulips do,
or smell as sweet as garden rose.
But oh, you should have seen me once—
in April, near the compost hose.

I bloomed a purple fierce and fine,
a crown of yellow, green, and flame.
The robin looked impressed at least.
(The cat, less so—but she’s not tame.)

They say I’m scruffy, hard to kill,
a stray among the tidy rows.
But still I bloom, despite the snips—
between the paving stones I rose.

No throne of soil, no welcome sign,
just cracks and shade and skies to please.
And yet I stand, a little bent,
still humming softly with the bees.

• The Weed At The Edge Of The Lawn by Jay Rose Ana