I am attracted to weeds—unbidden they rise
and grow without prompting
filling the empty spaces between

twisted roots

between the pretty and the prized.
Orchids follow orders and roses never bring
joy unless themselves brought—I mean,

give me shunned shoots,

broken, leaking stems that lie
trampled by the end of spring—
better they that lean

beneath the shoes, the stamping boots

than the pretty blossom that dies
at its admirer's hand. Left unchosen, anything
often spotted, rarely seen

retains the will to choose.