I don’t really like this one, based on the flower prompt from yesterday, but I can see where I want it to go, given a bit more time!
They call it a weed; but what is a weed,
but a plant, growing,
where we have decided it shouldn’t?
Who are we to declare wheat and chaff,
roses and thorns, arguing,
against Mother Nature’s grand designs.
They called her a weed,
tried to deadhead her, from the fun side of life.
Kept her in shaded corners, cut her off
from the oxygen and nutrients of good company;
hoped she’d wither away, vanish.
Stubbornly, she bloomed, blossomed,
turned her face to the sun, and outgrew
those who had tried to hold her back.
From a tiny acorn, this oak tree sprinted skyward,
stretching like a sun-drenched, contented cat,
casting her deniers into her shade.