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.