Little flower by the path

I saw a little flower by cobbled stone

With roots in cracks, it stands alone.

No garden bed, no gentle care,

Just dust and wind, sun and rain.

Strangers stare, the sun too harsh,

Yet the little flower, in pink, shines.

Each petal perfect, so small and round,

No gentle water,

Only harsh rain from the sky.

A quiet will, a will to live

Strong, tenacious, I hear a voice:

“I may be small, but I belong.”