Bluebells.
Cockleshells.
Neither of those is what I really am. My petals aren't as soft, my stalk not as small. I am a golden yellow with a large brown center full of seeds I am not ready to drop, but one day I will. I am nothing like those other flowers who grow far away from us, too weak to take our soil, blue, pinks and purples that are nearly translucent and showing their frailty.
They are petite little things, growing in the fertile land, while I stand in the meadow behind an old cottage, long since abandoned. The others around me told me stories of that place. How an old man, a human, would come out every day to rain upon their petals, the dirt covering their roots. What his kind looked like, I was never told.
He would talk and talk and give the strength to grow so tall towards the yellow spot in the sky, what the older flowers would call the sun. They considered it a paradise back then, now having to struggle to survive with true rainfall scarce. I have been used to it since my being a lonely seed, roots from the others surrounding me and keeping me safe. I've yet to know a safety such as that.
