It's not pretty. (Or is it?)

While we were walking home from gan today, Hila approached a dead plant and said, "Pretty. Pretty." And then continued to walk right past the very beautiful flower that was growing beside it.

It reminded me of this poem, one of my favorites:

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.
it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

by: Charles Bukowski