As a wee tiny seed, all that he knew
Was when he was planted, then he came to,
And when he was shoved down into the dirt,
Though the mercilessly cold and callous ground hurt,
His thirst was satisfied, and slowly he revived,
Then—crack!—With a shot of pain his outer shell rived.

Although the agony was great, he had survived,
And struggling, pushing upward, began to thrive.
And though all the plants around him wither and fall,
And though, even if he tries, he can't help them all,
Still he sprouts, and stretches, and strains
To be the best flower he could ever attain.

-Anne B. Caitlin