I could fret that my petals don’t match,

That some are shaped inconceivably small;

I could complain that my stem is too weak,

That I’m leaning too far, that my blossom might fall.

I could gripe that I’m alone in this place,

That none of my kind are in near proximity;

I could worry that I’ll soon lose face,

That in aging, my bloom will meet fragility.

But I could boast that my petals are unique,

That the sizing and arrangement reveal a rare soul;

I could revel in the stem that is so weak,

For it teaches me to lean on my Saviour as my goal.

I could learn to develop inner skills,

So that being all alone is not a lonely place;

I could rejoice that my hidden mental frills

Will replace my outer shell, and the fleeting bloom of face.

I could choose to see my world…