The weeds, they´re not all useless;

sprouting as they do

in nooks, corners and crevices –

unplanted, uncared, and flourishing.

They are but tiny moments –

transplanted from backyards of time.

Little white flowers that made you sneeze;

brown needles that stuck to your socks;

wild berries you ate when no one was watching.

Those uprooted, dormant seeds

springing up at the hint of rain,

spreading their roots on thin ground;

roots that thread you back

into the labyrinth of memories

of a bygone day, a bygone you.