“See me, feel me, touch me, heal me!” The speaker on the transistor radio blared out the haunting lyrics in a tinny tone. “That was The Who,” announced the deejay in a jumpy voice, “and their song, “Christmas”. The top 40 radio deejay broke in after every song with a corny joke or an ad for the latest hair care product. The girls were laying out nearby, baking in the sunshine, with the radio between them, and they were living for the songs – the rock n roll, baby! The Who, The Doors, The Beatles; every song transported the girls to a place where their cares melted away and their their futures became immediate, glimmering in the summer sun. One day they would meet their rock star heroes and run off with them to be singers in a rock n roll band.
The weed flower itched to be noticed. She wanted to be plucked and woven into a hippie garland; she wanted to go on stage with the girls in their dreams. She too was living for the music.
The girls grew hot and sleepy, so they escaped indoors for some iced tea, taking the songs of promise with them. The musical notes grew fainter. The weed flower reached after them, but she was stuck, rooted solid in the baked ground. “Touch…me!” She strained. The silence remained. The quiet sounds of the field grew louder and louder until all the weeds around her buzzed with clicking and buzzing and humming. The weed flower felt alone, left behind. She started to droop in the sun. Her friend the foxtail gazed up at the weed flower. “I touch you, every day. You are my rock star. Please stay.”
Please come back tomorrow for a new “Weed Image of the Day” and let me know which ones you like.
We and our weeds are so much more than what we first appear to be.