You pretty little thing
Sprouting yellow from the grass,
so delicately…
Staring into the sun
Rooted from the soil,
Declaring to the world that spring has come.
Careless feet trample you over;
The fate of all innocence,
bent and limp against the dirt.
They call you a ****, but it doesn’t stop you
from spreading your graceful seeds,
the wind as your messenger.
Hoping your words of hope wander
to the vicinity of fertile ground
As you wither back into the grass.