I Am a Flower When You Are Two

I am a flower when you are two. When you are four, you make headband chains out of me and my cousins. At five, you are told I am a weed. Death to me, say your parents. You don’t care. You still love me. You especially love the way you can Blow my crown off in frilly, wispy white flakes after my yellow top turns old. You secretly still love me when you grow up. When you see me, you remember, but We both know when you get out the Weed killer, some of you still love me.