It sits ablush in morning glory.
A small little thing, a short new story.
Too small, insignificant. It doesn't matter.
But oh, too small, give it some water.
The stem, pale green, bows to the ground.
It's too young and weak to lift it's crown.
It is too small, it will die soon.
It won't be around to even meet the moon.
No one will remember it when it's gone.
It leaves only its leaves to mourn.
The grass, the leaves, the bowed down stem.
It was special all alone, and alone to them.