Hey Potplant

So if you are the potter and i am the clay,
you don't gotta answer why you made me this way
but evenso, my mind remains curious,
though others look down, cite me as spurious.
a distressed looking potplant catches my eye,
most of the others are dead and dry.
this growth retains the spark of life,
though all around, surrounded by strife
and plenty within - I daresay it's true,
kicked when it's down, now growing askew.
just want to reach down to show it i care,
but i'd kill it with kindness, i'd interfere.
next to it a multi-tiered collection of dirt,
does it represent nothing, or a picture of hurt?
crowding round, last gasps for life spent,
twisted, wretched branches, hollow and bent.
yet close by in a white box of styrofoam,
many pretty light blue flowers made their home,
plain and yet pleasant, the one lasting truth
all else around, callous, uncouth.
the distressed looking potplant, fighting uphill
i'm lying, admiring, its perseverance and will.
some leaves are yellowed, i don't think there's hope,
yet you strive for the light, with your future - elope.
her roots hang on though the ground is unsteady,
the others gave up, she says, "i'm not ready".
she inspires me with wonder, a reason to fight,
but can i pull through when i'm flying that kite?
you can't safely land if you're not in the air,
oh well, whatever, i don't think i care.

so this one's for God - He is not airy-fairy.
His hand's in Creation, I can see it so clearly.
He knows of this potplant, struggling and striving.
He knows every leaf on that little dumb tree,
so how much more then, does He care for me.