weeds?!

of all the lovely things in the garden, I confess I have quite a soft spot for some of the alleged weeds…

     

Eleanor Blakely Dickinson’s poem, ‘Forget me not’ ends with these words:

….Like thoughts of home in climes afar;
Like evening’s still returning star;
Like tears which fall when the heart is sad,
Almost as sweet as that heart were glad;
Like friendship found where we sought it not;
In bower and garden, in field and grot,
Spring thy fair flowers, Forget me not.

 

It’s not an original thought to wonder who decides which things are weeds, and who decides what ‘the right place’ for them to grow is anyway… maybe something beautiful always finds itself in the right place?