Weeds

There are weeds growing.
I've raked the soil,
I've tilled the land
I've watered and tended and cared,
But
There are weeds growing.

Oh, the weeds have lovely flowers,
And I might collect a posy,
And the butterflies dance like children, madly,
But still,
They're just weeds growing.

I should pull them up by the roots, discard them,
But I keep them pressed and flat and perfect,
A memory of the times
When
There were weeds growing.

The big old oak's not bothered
It's roots are deep and strong,
It does not concern itself with
The fact that
There are weeds growing.

There are weeds growing.
But I will not weed them out,
I like the thorns and butterflies and scattered seeds,
And
Nobody needs know it.