still beautiful

What is a weed?

What is a flower?

Who decides what beauty is

and what it isn’t?

Are those flowers,

battered by the storm,

less beautiful?

Unworthy of notice?

An injured butterfly appears,

fluttering above me,

circling softly,

then resting beside me

on the rock.

Battered.

Torn.

Still flying.

Still beautiful.

And in that moment,

I realize…

I have all the answers I need.