I’m a weed on
A cliff, I hang out with
An eagle, but maybe the
Flowers are the weeds.
I’m free and they
Are not, I cling to rocks,
They cling to a pot of dirt.
When there is an earthquake
I will be safe but the flowers
Will not. They are plucked
And put into jars of water
They will die, but I will
Live free and long.
Jacob Gifford
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/freedom-170/
