Weeds ( Leaves, not just of grass III)

Is it a weed if it blooms? some oversmart-aleck

doodles on some bricks, and many years pass
the mortar shrinks, the bricks smile up a crack
the purple flowered vine slowly chokes the grass

the trees grow rings, leaves carpet the deck

layer on layer, one for each year, amass
the tales of seasons written on their backs
and there’s the graffiti, barefaced and flash

that doesn’t fade, and there’s no-one to check

how fast flowers go, and how long graffiti has
how large the effrontery of humans, how black
their writing, the exact depth of a minute’s sass

fourteen bricks fallen in a heap, and maybe

rudiments of insolence, or philosophy.