To the little yellow flower, whose ability to thrive in the lawns of hotels, my grandmother’s flower garden, and the sun-baked fields of farmers has dubbed you a weed. Your commonness and knack for survival is your crime against our suburban dreams. Yet your flower brightens the crags of high mountains, colors the desert plains and brings sunshine to the almost sunless forest floor. You live your life for the sake of your own by shedding your golden petals for the hope that is a seed and that makes you beautiful.
