Weeds

There are weeds in the garden.
Blending with the flowers,
Quite often they seem beautiful,
Distracting from view the essence of a blossom.
They feel like flowers and grow undaunted, if one is not careful,
Until, unattended, they strangle the life from the flower at its very roots.
The petals wither, drop to Earth, and suddenly the lovely garden is no more.
It stands barren; so alone, except for the colorful weeds.
There is no more scent to the air, no gentle blossoms swaying to and fro,
No buds awaiting their turn to burst, then grow.
Only a memory for those who know.
There are weeds in the garden.

Felicia M. Maisey
Copyright ©2008 Felicia M. Maisey