Strange yellow dots
You call them weeds,
But beautiful things
Bloom from many seeds.
I know green grass
Is the desired view
And yellow-white flowers
Stand out to just few.
So live in your house
And love your green shoots
And I’ll lie between wildflowers
And love my grassroots.
Perfect green grass,
All two inches high,
Will one day grow old,
Turn brown and die.
But beautiful blemishes –
Weeds – as you say,
Will mature in the sun
And be carried away.
So while your perfect lawn
Returns to the ground,
And my favorite plants
Are floating around,
Your view will be bare
Before autumn’s end
And my higher sight will
Forever transcend.
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