A weed, they say.
Nothing more than a yellow splash disrupting the green flow of normality.
An annoyance that gets in the way of perfection.
Another life to poison and remove from the universe of being.

But the situation is more complicated than the simple weed,
yet more simple than the complexities of nature.

The yellow splash is only in that state of innocent happiness for a limited time.
It soon dries up and turns old and gray,
then falls away.
Soaring, floating on the invisible current.

This wisp of cloud, rising through the air, falls eventually;
a snowflake drifting towards the ground,
awaiting the child’s open mouth.

That old strand of gray hair, once as golden as the sun,
reaches the ground as a newborn baby.
Grasping for life,
holding on to the dirt, which will allow it to grow.
O’ Mother Earth.

Tiny arms and legs hold on as the invisible current attempts to undo the birth it had created.
But nothing can stunt the will of new life wishing to live.
Except poison.

The baby’s arms and legs dig;
it wants to grow as tall as a tree one day and it will try.
The seed wishes to have roots strong enough to reach for the outskirts of intelligence.

Why can’t we all grow as a tree?
As a weed?
Because we would have to stop the poison.