Weeds

In gardens, it's the unwanted 
babies that grow best and biggest, 
swarming our beds of frail 
legitimate darlings with roots    
like wire and crude, bright flower-heads. 

They seem oblivious to the fury of steel prongs
earthquaking around them. 
If they fall today, tomorrow
they'll stand all the greener. 

Too soon, the beautiful lives    
we've trembled over with sprays 
of pesticide, friendly stakes, 
and watering-cans at sunset, 
give in, leaving us helpless. 

The weeds, the unfavoured ones, 
stare at us hungrily, 
and since it is hard to live    
empty of love, we try 
to smile; we learn to forgive them.

by Carol Rumens