i never paid interest,
to how leaves were shadowed by their complements,
like the free bread placed comfortably in baskets,
merely there to stall the diners before indulging in the main course.
the bread was never bad,
but it would never be the highlight.
yet, in the rare occasion that the spotlight was shone on them,
it would be one of a scorching hot glow,
the type to slowly eat at the layers of your skin,
uncomfortable and suffocating,
leaving irrevocable scars.
these were the weeds.
the unwanted, despised, imperfections of a plant.
it burgeoned with flaws,
seen as recalcitrant,
a sworn enemy of the hierarchy.
yet unlike its counterpart,
a flourished hibiscus would create rejoice.
but leaves are not insipid,
they are a season’s poetry,
a symphony of permanence and change,
a harmony of myriads of colour.
fresh toasted french bread,
crisp on the exterior,
soft and moist on the interior,
dipped in a sweet-sour concoction of Italian balsamic and olive oil,
can sometimes make the headline.
for it may be easy to love a flower,
but to notice the mundane,
takes more than just a glance.