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.
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Author:
Ezekiel Olayemi (
Offline) - Published: September 15th, 2025 07:34
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 18
- Users favorite of this poem: Vogelfrei
Offline)
Comments2
A most interesting view on the role of environment in shaping what we are. A poem with a message nicely written
Thanks sir
You are most welcome
On some weeds you can feed.
Thank you!
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