The day she chose
to lift her face to the sun,
love her own skin,
embrace her true colours,
When clouds lose their temper,
they growl and rage;
they hiss and they thunder,
and don’t act their age.
They roil, drawing knitted brows
into dark frowns,
they cover the sun and spit at the ground.
Such rude misbehaviour
just can’t be ignored –
except by the sunflower,
who smiles all the more.
Isn’t she the picture of peace under pressure? There is something there that I want to emulate in my own heart…
One of these things is not like the others,
One of these flowers is an island of blue;
She stands alone, amidst all the silver,
She isn’t ashamed of her different hue.
She isn’t aware that her petals’ arrangement
Stubbornly shouts out her personal flair;
She isn’t trying to mimic the snow-scape,
Or trying to squelch how she grows. Her air
Is one of contentment, of ‘I have arrived!’
She blooms where her seed has fallen by chance.
Her radiance, her difference, will draw all the eyes,
And hers is the visage that’s worth second glance.