One sunny bud
In the middle of a field
Seems inconsequential
Reflecting golden light
All alone.
A little yellow flower
Could feel a bit blue
Considering its own worthlessness,
But for the field to glow
With the glory of heaven
That particular flower must sway in the breeze
With a host of golden beauties.
Without each single, significant flower
We would just see blades of grass.
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