A father's life

In a cultivated garden or out in the wild
A sprout appears like a newborn child.
Was it planted there, or a tossed seed?
Will it become a flower or unwanted weed?

Someone will nurture it and treat it with care
Or leave it unattended, it doesn’t seem fair
Both have potential for form and beauty
One has a gardener, bound to their duty

Alone in the woods, it fights for its life
Looking for the weak, predators are rife
A chance to survive is all some will ask
It could be so simple or a grueling task

The beautiful ones are cut in their prime
Put in a vase, admired for a short time
For others, the same fate happens for them
But never, their inner beauty, seen as a gem

Dodging a rabbit or a hiker’s passing shoe
Becoming stronger, drinking the morning dew
The wild flower endures without helpful direction
Striving, just the same, out of reach of perfection

Then the winter comes, and the weather turns cold
The petals start to wither as the blossom grows old
It lies in quiet splendor on the soft flower bed
Leaves and mulch for a pillow, caressing its head

Its withered form is quiet, lying in the grass
Nowhere to go as time continues to pass
The sun disappears as the biting wind lashes
Carrying away what remains in the form of ashes