I don’t want to stick out like a weed in a field of wildflowers

I sway, with my sisters, I stretch, with my sisters, I fall, with my sisters

Do I become something ‘other’ when I am first noticed?

What if I am never noticed?

Then am I free? To be. In this vastness of pastel

If a yellow petal falls among pink and purple, do they scurry away

Wanting to flee from the strangeness?

Never. My sisters have never rejected me

We are the same.

But I am a weed. Who has called me such?

My seed planted me here, same as all the rest.

Carried on the wind of wishes and dreams

Until I have found my place with the flowers

What makes one a “weed”

When it seems the children take no issue in braiding me into their hair

When they pick me with my sisters, one lovely flower joins a choir, then called “bouquet”

When I have transformed, and children blow magic into the air

Magic that I long to spread to every corner and every far reaching land

Children can see me for my wonder

So I adopt the label of those that love me, see me.

I am a wildflower