There’s a milkweed growing out of the heart of a rose bush in my front yard. I can’t decide what to do.
A gardener who walks by could say from the curb, “Betsy, a weed is an evil that grows where it is unwanted. Banish it before it sows seeds and overtakes the good.”
The other weeds could observe, “Have you ever noticed how we survive in the worst conditions? Let the milkweed be a testament to rising.”
The minimalist poet might urge, “Let the roses speak for themselves. Remove the weed for beauty and clarity.”
The caterpillar, of course, would be the last to arrive, since she has to inch her way along the top of the world. “Listen,” she would say. “Life can turn you into a broken-down mess. When that happens, find a place to curl in, nest. Let this stretch of existence be simple. Eat. Breathe. Stay. Still. Gather the good. Let time work on you. One day you will find yourself ready—to weave the beautiful together and burst out in a new and glorious form.
“What you see before you,” the caterpillar would continue as she waved one of her many legs at the milkweed, “is a bed of transformation, protected by thorn, adorned with bud. And when you find your brand-new wings—and you will, trust me—the rose bush will toss blossoms into the sky to celebrate. And before long you’ll be able to fly to a beautiful forest far, far away, and cluster at the tree tops with a whole host of other winged things.”
I’m leaving the milkweed.
Live light, y’all.