The ground was covered with a thick blanket of green. It had rained the night before and the clover came up to bask in the sunshine. The zacate grass did as well, sending its runners reaching far and across the freshly plowed furrows. The mimosas were abundant, their purplish leaves folding at the touch of an errant  cricket's legs. There in the middle of this carpet of green rose a tiny but beautiful looking yellow flower. It stood perhaps a half inch above the tallest blade of grass.

The yellow flower looked resplendent and showy in that background of deep green splendor. The farmer's son took one look at it and fell in love. "How beautiful it would look in my mother's flower planter..." and with that thought, he dug it up, bundled the root ball and took it home. Hurriedly and in the fading twilight, he planted the yellow flower plant amongst his mother's petunias and snap dragons as soon as he got home.

Morning came. The sun rose up and in the garden the rose buds opened. Beautiful tiny ones and lovely American Beauties, even the South American Purple Rose sent out a couple of young buds peeking out from underneath the leafy canopy. The boy went looking for the little yellow flower he had transplanted the day before. It was there but was nowhere to be seen. In the wild profusion of perfect blossoms the little buttermilk plant faded into the background. The boy felt saddened by the loss of what looked to him as a perfect addition to the floral collection.

What happened? The boy thought long and hard. Was he wrong in transplanting the little yellow flower from its former growing place and into this strange wonderland of a myriad flowers? Did he do the little flower wrong by expecting too much from it? He remembered how beautiful the tiny yellow flower looked standing against a sea of green, rising above the lowly zacate grass runners, standing tall above the shy mimosa. And now it has been reduced into nothing more than a part of the faceless background itself, lost in a world of lovely blossoms.