Like weeds,
through the inklings of light slipping in,
I, too, rise. It is a fight
to command my cells to drink up the air,
breathe in the groundwater, as if I was ever
truly worthy of rising on a green-filled day.
As green trees paint the sky with their wind-blown brushes,
as green grass dances in unison, in harmony,
as the pastel feet of laughing children leap across,
I am but a weed, clinging on to whatever good air is near.
I am but a weed,

but I am alive
and one day, I will appreciate the strength of my roots,
the green of my body,

as a child appreciates the colors of nature.