The Garden

Who am I but a single weed in the garden of delicate flowers? Yet he turns and singles me out.

Not plucking me from the ground with dismay that I have spoiled his pallet of colour.

But with gentle kindness he holds me up careful not to bruise my leaves.

He looks upon me with admiration not that I have seen him bestow on the flowers in his garden.

For many years I watched the colours, and the delicate petals leave and return with the seasons change.

But I continue to reemerge. Ugly and twisted and thrown away. Yet my roots remain.

He is the new caretaker of this beautiful garden.

He sees me for what I am and does not find me distasteful and ugly.

But he complements me with his gentle touch and his long taking in of my scent.

This old weed is weathered with time, but hardy in strength.

Now I take centre stage in his garden.

Now to be admired as one of natures beautiful creations.