Poem: The weed growing above the freeway

When the worry and dread

take over my head,

I go visit the weed 

Growing above the freeway.

And I tell it my troubles,

which are always different

yet always the same,

about how the world is dying,

yet humans keep flying

faster toward their doom,

like the cars forever driving 

on the freeway below.

And always I ask the weed

how it found that crack in the gray

to grow so green and serene

and stand so tall

above it all.

And always it says nothing,

because weeds can’t talk.

Still I always feel better after our chat,

and begin searching anew for my way

to grow green and serene among the gray,

and be like that weed 

growing above the freeway.