I never really cared about paper flowers in the garden. I used to think paper flowers were just stubborn plants planted by lazy people: they didn’t need much watering, they weren’t fussy about the soil, and they would survive even when neglected. But that morning, when the sun was still reluctant to rise, I saw something that made me stop.
The leaves.
Light green and gray, clashing on one branch like two opposing human natures that somehow managed to coexist. Light green, fresh, innocent, full of hope like a child who had just learned to walk, always curious. As for gray? It was more mature, maybe a little tired, maybe also wise, like someone who had faced reality enough times but chose to keep smiling.
And among them, there were small white flowers. As if someone was saying, “Hey, don’t be too serious, life still has little surprises!”
I got closer, observing more closely. The leaves were oval-shaped, with slightly serrated edges. Not smooth and slippery like the leaves that are often stroked in poetry, but also not rough like a dish brush. These leaves are like old friends who are sometimes nosy but can still be relied on.
I idly flicked a leaf. He swayed slightly, as if to protest. "Don't play around," he might have said.
That's when it hit me: these paper flowers weren't just lazy plants. He has character.
Just think: it grows on the fence, on the boundary between the house and the outside world. She's not as elegant as a rose, not as fragrant as jasmine, but she's always there. It keeps dust out, protects the yard, provides a little beauty without asking for much. He accepts sunlight patiently, accepts rain without complaining.
Maybe, if paper flowers could talk, they would say, "Life doesn't need to always be the center of attention. Sometimes it's enough to survive, grow, and occasionally provide small surprises for those who want to look closely."
And that morning, I decided to no longer ignore it.
