“Like Weeds Among Wildflowers

I wake each day like a scarecrow,
propped up in a field I didn’t plant—
patchwork smile, straw-stuffed pride,
arms outstretched in borrowed stance.

The sun rises, honest and unafraid.
Birds sing their truths without trying.
Even the bees—bumbling, busy—
seem to know just where they're flying.

But I? I shuffle through my hours,
like a cat in a dog’s parade,
hoping no one sees the seams
or hears the doubts I’ve barely laid.

There’s bread to bake, the table to set,
the kettle boils just the same.
I nod and say “I’m fine, just tired,”
and no one questions the claim.

The world moves with simple trust—
the river flows, the laundry dries.
Why do I stand here, holding breath,
waiting to be called a lie?

Perhaps the truth is quiet too,
like moss that grows on stone unseen.
Perhaps belonging doesn't shout;
it settles soft in daily routine.

So I’ll plant tomatoes, tie my boots,
let doubt ride shotgun for a while.
Maybe I’m no sunflower bright—

but even weeds can learn to smile.