Plant and weed

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.