I Grow Here

Please, can you hear ? Don’t trample me, for I grow here.
It’s hard, taking root, standing tall– each morning unfolding with fear: 
Am I invisible, hurried feet? Am I silent, buzzing ears?
Then, you bend down — breath so sweet — it melts my deep-seeded despair.
Now this I know, from where I stand: I grow for a child’s revere.

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