Just a Weed

Today's muse: Pictures, Poetry & Prose

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Just a Weed

When I was but a wee young thing—
no more than five or six—
to mother I would often bring
a bouquet that I’d picked.

I offered weeds with heads all bent;
a wide smile on my face.
She always knew how much it meant,
and placed them in a vase.

Now she’s gone and every day
I pray that I’ll be brave.
And every week I stop to lay
dandelions on her grave.


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edit:

let me say that this is a work of fiction ...
i am lucky to say i still have my mom