Weed Of Life

Wherever I go, I wither. Wherever I wander, I wrinkle. The longer I live, the more I bend to stay in this life, and the more I find myself stuck in old poses. Today I am not soft and supple. My mind buzzes and flits; and with the buzzing wandering, my thoughts and memories are blown away, scattered in no particular direction. Solid things like knowing and thoughts are replaced by a fog that contains the aches and pains, constantly pricking my gnarled leaves, picking at me like pesky mosquitos on a summer night by the lake.

Ah, I smile. That, a summer lake, that I can remember. I can feel the cool water lapping at my feet. I can hear the laughter of my friends and the excitement in the air. The night is moist against my bare skin. The smell of sunscreen and wet hair carries the scent of teenaged attraction across the years, to me now, today, standing in the harsh sun.

But oh, the pain starts again.

The pain shoots up my back, squeezing out my youth. The memory of a faraway summer night bursts like a rainbow hued bubble that leaves no trace. Once again I stand; wooden and bent over, pained and wrinkled, but still here. I stiffen and brace myself for breezes now. I do not revel in them, instead I shrink. But I am still here. The water of that lake would be too cold for me now, and the gentle lapping would knock me over. I am old, but I am still here.

So if you see me today, or another old one, please smile. It is not a delightful thing be an old weed, but I know I am still here, and I’m pretty sure I will still have my moments.

Thinking of aging today, and loved ones growing old. They look much frailer than they really are, and so if I am lucky I will see them in their more supple times.

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.

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