The upside of weeds is that they're reliable. Kicked and trampled, blown to bits, back again tomorrow, alert little bundles.
Happy to be picked with sticky fingers, seeds that float like parachutes into the street, their stems limp and forgiving...
A seemingly endless supply are they, of fluffy-globes to blow and kick and crumble, seeds that scatter and grow into weeds of their own...
In the morning we'll wake and they'll be waiting for us. And the morning after that and the morning after that... to be continued and continued and continued.
Dandy.
GGC
