I’ve heard about weeds
that spring up where the dirt is disturbed,
so watch out, just in case.
Last year, they tore out my favorite tree,
churning and scarring the ground with oily, overgrown shovels.
I remembered the weeds, and all through the winter I watched—
Nothing was planted, and nothing grew.

Nothing was planted,
but late in the summer I saw small, stubborn sprouts
stand in defiance,
and I watched, like I was told.

They grew as I watched,
stronger and sturdier,
telling me their names.
I told them mine. I know them now—
they couldn’t be weeds—
and I hope they stay,
filling the space where something should be.