Often a flower appears as a weed.

Sometimes the greatest of gifts can disguise

As a common thing, erased by our greed

For the ones we call pretty, the flower that complies

To the standards, the things that we tell it to be.

We turn a blind eye to the humble weed,

Growing persistently by the rushing brook.

If it grows tall, still we pay it no heed.

Desperate, it grows and it grows, and we look.

We see how it looks and we cut it, deaf to its plea.

Winter passes bleak, and come spring,

The flowers we watered and told what to be

Are gone to the world, nothing more to bring.

But the weed pushes through, ever wild and free.