A perfect miniature marigold lives in the crack between sidewalk and step. It’s too late to yank it by the roots — it has arrived. It’s growing, has a tiny flower.
Who am I to declare “You may not thrive there…”
My daughter knows a thing or two about the marigold trick. She floated in on the wind when no one was paying attention and planted herself, said hello. How could I say — Mistake! Go back! — once she had gone to the trouble of becoming?
Who am I to refuse life, or say no to blossoming, to the cause of beauty?