I believe in Dandelions.
They are freckles of the earth
Who only want to reach a sage stage
And bring you luck.
Not acne,
Made worse by picking.
I believe in Queen Anne’s lace.
I believe you can’t even really see the little black bugs
Unless you look for them.
I believe Thistles are prickly
Because they have been hurt before.
Someone told them they were pretty
But abandoned them for something with petals.
I believe wild Violets blush
Because they know they are whores;
Ashamed,
The try to hide their parentage
Behind deceptive good looks.
Pretty enough for you to pick
But not worth bringing home to meet the family.
I believe in weeds
Far more than the vanity
In a hybrid rose.
The Proud Dandelion 