A plant grows in a field, unseen by any hand,
Until time reveals whether it is a flower or a weed.
When it first broke through the dust, it was simply a plant—
New and bright,
Fragrant like the setting sun,
Like blossoms that gladden the heart.
The soil shapes and molds it, as though by art,
A layer where all plants are made—or unmade.
And yet, when it is called a weed, unwanted and cast aside,
Few ever realize
It was the soil all along that made it so.