I read somewhere that weeds are the rodents of the plant world,
that they are sneakily aggressive, opportunistic, fiercely feral,
that they should be weeded out. I have heard this language before;
little good comes from it. Where are the Wordsworths of Weeds?
Plath comes closest, celebrating mushrooms. I like the strange,
tangled beauty of weeds, their punk swagger, their dogged persistence.
They too one day might inherit the earth.