Weeds, to some, are like memories long past.

Needing to be plucked of the shadows they cast ---

But I see their beauty, for God placed them there.

So that’s where I leave them and tend to their care.

Their roots, growing deeply, hold fast and true.

As my faith, my love and my hope must do ---

To garner my strength for another day.

To weather life’s storms that come my way.

Where I see a flower and you see a weed.

Its presence and purpose fulfills my need ---

To do what I can to manage the earth.

In my small garden, regardless of worth.

As I nurture my weeds and watch them grow.

There’s something I’ve often wanted to know.

Could the loveliest rose, cursed with its thorn.

Be simply a weed --- imperfectly born?

Author - Unknown