Within three weeks under my family's care, the adopted orchid sends out a monstrous 50cm shower of flowers. The blossoms are yellowish green with a furry pink heart.

This plant had sprung up in the manicured landscape of UTown, within a strip of grass next to a parking lot. People were stepping on it, so wholly unaware of its potential.
A few friends were amazed that I managed to spot this orchid:
Are you sure it isn't a weed? It looks like one.
You're thinking too much, XY. Seeing things when they don't exist.
The white, tubular roots? The peach-like bulb? It must be an orchid sapling. I was certain that the inconspicuous plant was an orchid but I was less clear on what to do with it. Should I remove it? Would it die under my care?
I could only imagine its fate. I had seen two other orchid clusters around and took a quiet pleasure in observing their growth. There was this strange delight that, somehow, they belonged to me alone. I celebrated each leaf's inching growth.
Then, the plants were removed by the contracted gardeners. Snuffed out before they could flower. Excised.
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The orchid was growing on the narrow strip of grass next to the asphalt parking lot. |
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The poor thing looked like a weed. It was trampled upon. |
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The orchid rewards my help with a shower of flowers against the brick wall. |
To date, I've spotted at least seven other clusters of wild orchids about UTown. None of them were as tall or bountiful as mine.
Here're some questions that I've yet to reconcile:
Why is it that I treat a wild orchid differently from, say, a wild mimosa?
What justifies the removal of an organism from its natural habitat? Would it still be considered 'wild'?
And should I have let the orchid face its destiny in the carpark space?
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