Weeds

So I was going to wait to write this poem fragment until a little later in the month because it's for a prompt for the writers group I go to once a month.  But I couldn't get the first line out of my head and couldn't think of anything else to write, so here it is.  Needs work and a second draft, so maybe I'll have time to do that before I bring it to the group meeting.

April 2, 2013

She said I grew like a weed,
which I found hard to believe
because I've laid belly down
on the front lawn,
waiting for dandelions to grow...
and they are not the most sprightly sprouts.

Unless what she really meant
is that weeds just pop up.
Everywhere.  Randomly.
Which isn't exactly flattering either.

Dandelions take root in my nail beds,
drinking up the nutrients and
taking over unincorporated real estate.
The clovers get lucky
when they shoot up from my veins.
But I'm still using a lasso
instead of RoundUp
because she said I grow
like a weed.

"A weed is but an unloved flower."

- Ella Wheeler Wilcox