The sky was blue in my country

the house was blue

my little weeds grew sweetly

lifting their small faces up humbly

to the source of their grounded lives.

My mother didn’t like them;

she yanked them from the dirt

and threw them in a bucket

next to the sandpit.

I didn’t understand

why they chose to grow

where she could see them.

I sat in the little blue sandpit

and crouched down to the earth

after my mother left

to inspect the effect of the small life that left its shores.

There was a tree

where some flowers grew behind,

sheltered by the rage of the wind and my mother.

They grew to be so tall and so wild with the filtered sun and the heat shining through amidst the tender rain and shade of the tree.

I didn’t touch them or pick greedily at their petals for they were much too pretty for that.

I sat and watched them as they lifted up their faces and smiled at their protector,

reckless and free as birds to just grow.

I see wildflowers here and there now

but none of them need to worry.

We all look for the tame ones.

I applaud them now as they live as they should that they could have legs and walk

is a factor we soon should bear and let them see the world or just the field.

They all have such colors and interesting minds

why we regard a lion as a weed

is beyond me.

I look out at the vast expanse before me

and wonder why they are so extraordinary and beautiful.