NaPoWriMo 2016 – (Day Eight)

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.


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