A Weed
Though progress does attempt to prevent
A plant from feeling the warmth of the day,
One small weed crawls through the sidewalk cement,
Forking between two slabs of my pathway.
I pass it, startled by the protrusion,
Impressed that it had learned how to survive.
It seems to thrive despite its seclusion—
Despite all the pollutions that deprive
It. Secondhand water quenches its thirst.
Garbage cloisters in the cracks that surround
It. Yet, the weed does not appear coerced
By the filth that litters the paltry ground.
Somewhere beside the congested gridlock
Of traffic, this plant stands—in the sidewalk.
I stare at the weed for a moment to
Wonder why no one had plucked it before.
It was not something I had sought to do,
But I pondered about what it lived for—
Why it challenged the street with sturdy roots
Or fought industry with a stable stem.
What made its will thoroughly absolute,
Woven to the Earth by a steady hem?
I wanted to hold the plant in my hand,
To cradle its would-be wilting branches—
To be able to truly understand
What the purpose of its burdened life is.
I would take that from the weed so I know
That there is reason left for me to grow.
I resisted the urge to tear the weed
From the ground, dirt shaking as it ascends.
Stealing its life would not provide my need
To discover my answer. I pretend
To break its being from the nature
That has nurtured it, although hostile,
In the hope that I could maybe capture
Its source vitality after a while.
Then I relax, leaving it all alone,
To fend for itself against the climates
And social structures of steel and of stone—
A world possessed by the inanimate.
I walk away and once again it went.
One small weed crawls through the sidewalk cement.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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