
A wildflower thrives on its own, independent,
No need for watering—the roots draw from the swamps,
Adapting as it grows.
Out there in the wild, unattended,
A plant survives, untouched by human hands,
Focused solely on survival.
A wildflower, growing where no rules exist,
Struggles amidst thorns and towering trees.
Anyone can pluck it,
Wild flies can sip from it,
Or grazing animals may feast on it.
But a wildflower, though free,
Needs a tender hand to nurture its beauty.
For this, I would not just pluck it—
I would uproot the mother plant,
So many more could bloom from her roots.
Within my sight, I would tend it,
Clearing away thorns, fencing it in,
Top-dressing the soil, and watering it with care—
Purified water, for the rain may not always be pure,
So the bees and nearby flies may drink from it clean.
When it blooms, I’ll gather it gently, in season,
Placing it on my table for visitors to admire.
It will no longer be wild,
But gently domesticated, cared for, and cherished.
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