The speaker begins with a blunt wish: not to keep making the same mistakes, or to borrow other people's just to have the experience. She admits to failing anyway ("fucked up again") and then turns on her own habit of trusting what she thinks she knows, which she says only leads her further astray. Against that self-certainty, the poem sets what is plainly in front of us: things growing in the air and in dreams, "the obvious under our noses," which is simply life.
The weeds are a good image of this. They have names, take pride in themselves, and form communities, while birds hop through. Cultivated, imported plants take real work. By the end, the speaker feels at home and senses that no thought belongs to her alone. Thought drifts through fog and blue sky. The mood starts out rueful and restless, then settles into a calm, humble acceptance.