in grown up yards
they have no place
marring the green carpet
suburban blight
plucked and thrown on
a burn heap
but they always return

but as a child…
rubbed on chins
“do you love butter?”
pick a bouquet for mama
tied in chains
to wear on tangled
sun-bleached
fly-away hair

just a weed
carrying the beauty
of sun of summer
of butter and sun-bleached
barefoot brown legs
in cotton shorts
thrown on a trash heap
remembered as a crown
finest jewels