We all hang on

Vines some of us

Are picked but most

Of us spend forever

Hanging and basking in

The sun and shiver

In the night hoping

But never ever knowing

For certain that the

Sun will warm again

Those are the those

Who choose to wither

They choose comfort over

Discomfort they choose to

Be next years compost

Rather than this years

Yield how you may

Ask then how does

One on the vine

Who isn’t picked become

Part of the yield

They time their jump

Precisely into the hands

Of the picker most

Fail but isn’t the

Hope of being something

Else worth the risk

And then there amidst

A prairie of wildflowers

I found a weed

And you know what

That weed I found

Was simply plainly beautiful

Not because it was

A weed but because

It was different from

All of the others

Sprouting where you can

Is sometimes all that

It ever takes to

Get noticed never lessen

Who you are by

Who you are amongst

Never mistaken looks

For character for

Looks are simply

A reflection of

Something that once

Was but character

Is the back

Upon which everything

Else is carried

I am saddened

By my epiphany

Many people think

That the ah-ha

Means that whatever

That it was

Is now behind

No it’s not

What an epiphany

Or any ah-ha

Ever really is

Is nothing more

Grand than stubbing

Your big toe

In the darkness

Admitting to yourself

That you knew

All along that

That was there