In the field, the grass bends and sways
dancing in the breeze
the pressing weight of summer haze
suffocating me.

A sea of clover, uniform,
spreads out across the hill
upon which stands a single flower,
delicate, frail, and blue.

Thin petals cower from the sun,
the stem barely supporting the bloom.
Amongst the clover, sure and true,
holds a shaky frame.

Against the sun's bright spotlight,
against the blowing wind,
the simple blue flower all alone;
more beautiful than all,
wishes in it's heart of hearts
to be but clover,
and not apart.