It is lonesome, yes. For we are the last of the loud. Nevertheless, live. Conduct your blooming in the noise and whip of the whirlwind. - Gwendolyn Brooks

This is the urgency: Live!
And have your blooming in the noise of the whirlwind.

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray.

consider the big fists breaking your little bones, or consider the vague bureaucrats stumbling, fumbling through Paper.

She would have liked a lotus, or China asters or the Japanese Iris, or meadow lilies — yes, she would have liked meadow lilies, because the very word meadow made her breathe more deeply, and either fling her arms or want to fling her arms, depending on who was by, rapturously up to whatever was watching in the sky. But dandelions were what she chiefly saw. Yellow jewels for everyday, studding the patched green dress of her back yard. She liked their demure prettiness second to their everydayness; for in that latter quality she thought she saw a picture of herself, and it was comforting to know that was was common could also be a flower.