Rooted

I saw it months ago and thought

it would be gone by now. But there

it still is, bigger than before,

the concrete perfect and intact

except for one crack.

This morning I pulled at it.

The stem didn't break. I pulled harder,

desperate, and my hand slipped

and scraped raw against the concrete.

I sat back on my heels and bled

onto the pavement. The weed

stayed in the crack, still growing,

small leaves reaching like it had

nothing to lose, like it knew

exactly what it was doing,

like it had been waiting for me

to hurt myself trying.