I don't want to stick out like a weed in wildflowers.

I want to be the rose,

buried in thorns and brambles,

beckoning the hand to reach through and grab me.

I want to be sought for and found,

the four leaf clover,

buried amongst my brethren,

struggling to find the light,

hiding from sight in

the rolling emerald hills.

Not the weed but the lillypad,

lying flush on the surface of the pond,

soaking up the sun and the wake,

a happy temporary spot for the drifter frog.

But I do stand out.

The lone Indian paintbrush on the blue bonnet highway.

Leading you home, until some asshole picks me.