What is a weed? I have heard it said that there are sixty definitions. For me, a weed is a plant out of place.
Beauty is excrescence, superabundance, random ebullience, and sheer delightful waste to be enjoyed in its own right.
Whatever life is (and nobody can define it) it is something forever changing shape, fleeting, escaping us into death. Life is indeed the only thing that can die, and it begins to die as soon as it is born, and never ceases dying. Each of us is constantly experiencing cellular death. For the renewal of our tissues means a corresponding death of them, so that death and rebirth become, biologically, right and left hand of the same thing. All growing is at the same time a dying away from that which lived yesterday.