To myself, I am the soil,
but why compare myself to something undesirable?

Why not the trees the lifelines of this earth,
towering above, sturdy, and wise with old age,
reaching out with protective limbs that shield us from the harshest of storms?
Guardians that watch over us all
and whose presence is a breath of fresh air?

Why not the flowers that liven the earth,
that can instantly brighten a person’s day,
seen as fragrant and graceful,
a symbol of youth and beauty,
ballerinas pirouetting along the gentle wind?

Why the soil, which is susceptible to climate changes,
swayed by rain or chill,
distinguished by its bland, brown color,
avoided and scorned as filth,
consistently stepped on without a care?

To myself, I am the soil.
I am one who nurtures and aids in the growth of others
I am where the roots cling and remain nourished
I am the one who encourages the beauty in the world,
though I may not be beautiful myself.

To myself, I am the soil,
and there is value in even the most seemingly undesirable of things.