Weedy

Weedy thoughts drift like thin green tendrils,
Through cracked paving stones of a city lane,
They clutch at the sun with pale, hesitant fingers,
Seeking a crack where light might remain.

In the garden’s quiet corner, a weed stands tall,
Its leaves a shy whisper of jade and grey,
Not the bold rose, nor the proud hollyhock’s call,
Yet it holds the earth in a modest array.

A weedy soul walks the mist‑kissed moor,
Footsteps soft on the bruised heather,
Heartbeat a reed that sways, not a drum’s roar,
Finding strength in the quiet, the frayed, the feather.

So let the weedy verses grow,
Untrimmed, unpolished, yet true—
In their fragile, persistent glow,
They teach the soil what it means to renew.