"Diff'rence 'tween a weed 'n a flow'r is which side of the fence it's on." Back bowed, she grips the porch's wooden support to ease her heavy frame down the step, white hair waving in the wind.
I was surprised into silence, unused to such pearls slipping from sour lips. Perhaps sudden insight sprang from a hidden desire to live a more cultured life, longing for fertile soils with well watered roots that would have resulted in deep colored blossoms and green leafy stems to stretch toward the sun.
It is conceivable that she was weary of the struggle, tired of of toiling past tall grasses to reach for life giving sunlight, withering when clouds are dry and tired of fighting off thistle that reaches out to strangle and choke.
"Still purdy though"