Weeds.

We didnt have much
No
Not anything at all
Miami a city
Where the flowers would fall

The bustle was full
The Fall never came
But everywhere it grew
We never learned the name

I would pick a few
Fresh in the mornings dew
Between two fingers
A small bushel of flowers for you

I look upon them today
In my comfy, warm home
That you built in me with blood
Sweat
And love

And I look upon the weed
That turned bitter squab into doves
Finding comfort in you
Watching us from above.