The flower grows 

In the soil. 

It sprouts from the ground. 

In swoops the farmer 

To pluck it out. 

It is a weed. 

The weed did not know it was a weed. 

The weed thought it was a flower, 

Just like the others. 

Alas, the weed is taken out of the soil. 

It struggles to breathe. 

Its lungs stretch, 

Its heart races, 

Its brain scrambles for escape 

From imminent death. 

Jumping from the farmer’s hand, 

It lands back in the soil. 

The soil. 

Where it belongs. 

Its roots flex, 

Embracing the soil beneath. 

New soil. 

This is not where the weed sprouted, 

But where it landed. 

The new soil is good, it is fresh. 

The new soil is crisp and clean. 

The new soil is filled with love. 

The weed asked itself: 

Was the farmer bad, then, 

For removing me? 

I am happier, 

Where I once was not. 

Now, 

I am not the weed. 

I am the flower.