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