In a windy, wasteland she grew.
Hidden where no seeing eye could appreciate her beauty.
Up through the dry, cracked dirt
As she matured,
Jagged edges conspired to scar her tender green skin.
Dirty hands ravaged her white petals
Striving to strip her soft heart of its beauty.
Suffocating heat whipped her,
Seeking to strain the pink color from her cheeks.
But still she grew.
Despite the nomads who doubted her strength
Mocking her intricate frame,
“She’ll never survive this harsh land.”
Despite jealous eyes ridiculing her elegance,
“Why are you here? No one will ever see you.”
She danced in the thrashing wind
Twirling in the midst of the broken ground.
Singing her song in the smothering heat.
Thriving through the destruction
Of careless fingers.
Under the glances of spiteful, blind eyes
The wasteland could not waste her.
Devastation swirled around her,
Desolation breathed upon her
the beauty grew
though no one could see.
-For My Sister Abbie, so you can see what I see