The little leaf is paisley-shaped now, different from its brethren. Halfway through growing, a stem got in the way. It grew around it. It took its share of water from the roots, and grew around it.
The plant itself doesn’t notice the difference anymore. Maybe, maybe in those moments of stalled blossom, the one little leaf felt like the weakest link, but not now.
Now the plant chomps on sunlight: no stem, no leaf, any less perfect than another.
The little leaf is shaped differently now, and perhaps was always destined for such a fate- to grow, to grow anyway.