Sonnet to a Weed

To all the bitter vetch and thistle weed
And all the underbrush and creeping vine,
You, too, are flowers sprung from God’s good seed
With worth as great as any grape’s best wine.
It’s not for me to say you have no place,
Mere mortal, I, with all that does imply,
With stumbled gait, I’ve never won a race
Nor matched the light of palest star’s soft sigh.
No tyrant with a dream of herbicide,
No fool who claims to set the world on fire,
I am a lowly gardener inside
With nothing mean nor evil to aspire.
……..But if you harm the bluegrass that I plant
……..I’ll yank your roots and feed you to the ants.

2 thoughts on “Sonnet to a Weed

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