The flowers opened with the rooster’s crow and closed as the sun went down. Everyone called them weeds, and that’s what they were if you were someone other than me.
Whatever their name, they woke and fell asleep with the sun, like us, and that was just so beautiful to me.
I’ve lived in several houses where this sort of ‘weed’ rose upon the front lawn like a problem to be dealt with, and though the grass was neater upon their official doom…it was never quite the same. Never as alive. Never as lovely, such is the vibrance of dynamic life.
And so it was that I loved that lawn much more when the weeds were alive.
Because Shakespeare was right.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.