My job as a child was to pull them gasping; the young creepers that grew in the corn, the beastly stalks blanketed with prickly down that thrived in the outskirts of the garden, and even the prettyish ones, with the pale lavendar bell-bloom were in the end too treacherous to allow them nosh.

My father's explanation, no question was left unasked at this time in my formative years, for the mission of the weed, was to teach the bodies about the joy of work, how beauty and fruit comes with toil and price. So the basal understanding of the weed, acknowldeges the complete lack of any individual worth a weed holds. It in fact holds none, but is simply an object lesson in appreciating your inflorescence, if you are fortunate enough to be categorized as such.

It comes to my forefront, indulging my base categorization instinct, that there is the vegetation/fleur human life, and there is the human weed kin. The hindrances, the shams, the love-suckers, crowding up the soil with their flint-stone feet, choking hope out of carrots and roses.