My Wild Weeds

Maybe since I'm not a farmer I've always had a spot in my heart for weeds.
That commercial where they squirt a couple of dandelions in the crack of the driveway with some pesticide (and they wither away like the Wicked Witch of the West) always makes me sad. When I lived in New York City weeds through sidewalk cracks got my empathetic encouragement: "You can do it, young fella! Conquer that cement!" As a bird watcher I studied field guides to weeds just to know what the black-capped chickadee or the red-winged blackbird ate for a snack. One creature's banquet is another's menace.
Now that I have a spot of dirt to plant a tomato or two I'm out there everyday pulling up that crab grass and insistent ivy that the previous owner planted. No dandelions tho. Lots of other unknown weeds that I often mistake for "real" plants.
So wrestling with weeds is not entirely foreign to me. In fact, I've had my own personal weed garden to tangle with each day of my life.
That's my hair. Curly, unruly, will not toe the line, or smooth out, or listen to me. (I used to straighten it in my teens but that short-lived battle won could not win the war.) I gave in years ago. I have a wild weed garden on my head. And no amount goop, spray, pleading, begging, psychokinesis, or heavy hats will tame it.
You might say I wallow in weeds. I even like the word.
Before agriculture weeds lived free. And so did a lot of other earthly delights.