Do I grow as the vine grows?
Limber and stragulating in my discontent?

Or do I grow as the tree, firm and set in my ways until rot or accident moves me?

Or do I grow as the weed grows? Am I everywhere unkept and underfoot, and uprooted do I return again?

I have decided: I never will be the flower – I’m not beautiful. Nor am I the corn or the wheat, for I’m not that valuable.

I’ll be the weed, and I’ll stay here and return no matter where they haul me.