THE SUNFLOWER

In the field are sunflowers,
Blowing in the breeze.
Oblivious to reality,
As free as they please.

But there's one far away,
On a patch of brown grass.
Waiting for someone to come along
With a basket made of brass.

It hopes, it wishes,
For someone to pick it.
But no one ever does,
For blooming it doesn't get.

So it stays there forever,
On a patch of brown grass.
For no one comes along,
With a basket made of brass.