What I call a flower, you call a weed,
Because you did not plant, or grow from seed.
Such a delicate of things, a yellow so pure,
But you try to rid, of it once more.
What I call a flower, you do not see,
Because you did not choose, just let them be.
Such a perfection of design, that is just right,
But you may want gone, it gives a fight.
What I call a flower, I do not mind,
Because you did not want, in place you find.
Such a beauty we find, not something of desire,
But you may not want, I stand and admire.