They are the only ones who attempt. They are the only ones who accept. Three adamant dandelions with limp stems and beaming flowers like the sun. Three who have no cordial abode. Three battered nuisances scattered among the lawn. From the road, people see them, but they simply pass, denying their potential beauty.

Their grit is unacknowledged. Their green axis sways in the wind. They weather the rain and the stomping and they grasp ahold of small grains of dirt, acquiring notches and bends, yearning for a sense of assurance. This is how they endure.

Should one find its identity in the description of a weed, they’d look past the facade as if peering through a clear glass window. See, see, see they’d beg in the night. They ache.

When times are too harsh and too brutal to stay standing, when they are outsiders in their own territory, they then turn toward each other. When there is no comfort to be found at the threshold. Three whose destiny has yet to unfold. Three who are determined and cannot be deterred. Three whose sole purpose is to try although being tried.