The golden flower whom blooms in the midst of the soil thought of as too poor is the greatest of them all. Call them not weeds for they are the miracles, the ones who blossomed when the odds were stacked against them. Yet as the gardener my job is to ensure that the soils become more rich, the water comes. Then in the sunshine many blooms will come to join those survivalists of the botanical world.
Golden petals radiated the sunny rays. Each one was a glorious sun of the soil so rooted in the good earth. They were the flowers of our joyful days, of the spring and summertime. We loved them so.
The golden flowers were a sunrise that stayed, blooming with determined brilliance. It was as if they saw they were not the leaves nor the grass, and so they became themselves all the more; ever more beautiful for their boldness.
In that array of free grass, the wands softly creating patters of green, were golden flowers. daisies of a sort. There were the blooms of my soul, wild as they were, yet with each petal so perfect, with the centre as a sun of the earth.
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