Atop dried needles,
Beneath a rock of ages,
A flower blossoms.
I know this “flower” is “just a weed” to many. I think of anything that blooms as a flower- it doesn’t have to be deliberately planted and carefully nurtured to be pretty. I’m drawn to life that flourishes where I wouldn’t expect it to.
Like this weed flower. It seems that the weight of the rock would crush it’s roots, but still it blooms.
Like people who are expected to become nothing, but push themselves to rise above the doubt; like the abused who break the cycle and embrace gentleness instead; like the orphaned children of war who promote peace; like the grieving person who musters a smile for someone else in need.
Yes, every day I see the beautiful blooms of lives that flourish in a world that should be barren.