Weedlight (a 100 word story)

I may stay home today and think about it. I may let the rain set in. Deep puddles where potted plants should be. I have seen, and I see, the live stem weeds arise from the thawing thickets. They too ache and climb toward light. I may go tomorrow where the river flows along the highway and be that bridge to the other side. But now I'm caught in the haze of arrested being. It's dark everywhere and I'm not free. To leave or to stay. Not even as free as the weed that climbs urgently toward the weakening light.