I wasn't going to post this one--it didn't turn out exactly the way I wanted--but the sad weed seemed to depress a bunch of folks, so here's the end of the story:

The sad weed got uprooted one day, torn from his cozy rock in the sun by a hungry dog. That dog carried him across the road, over the fence, past crabby ol' Mrs. Hislop's house, and into the park. As Mr. Dog passed beneath the dappled shadow of a venerable oak, a dandelion puff invaded his nose, and he fell to sneezing. The weed, released with some force, sailed through the air. He soared over the saplings and scrub-brush and Indian-pipes, and flopped sadly down on the riverbank, battered and bruised. He lay among the flowers and grasses, long roots drying in the sun. He died with a smile on his weedy little face, gazing into the fragrant faces of the daisies for the first time in his life.

Seasons came and went. The sad weed decomposed. His seeds went into the earth, and were covered by dead leaves in autumn. In winter, a blanket of snow descended on the snoozing seeds. One day, winter passed on and a merry spring breeze blew overhead, carrying the scent of crocuses on its breath. That cheerful scent awoke a seed, which sprouted and grew, wrapping friendly roots round the grasses and daisies.

A weed never really dies, see. You can yank it or snip it or dig it up, but you'll always miss a seed, from which that weed can grow back.

The End

( Detail: [link] )