As I walk down my driveway, past the seemingly endless field of
sprinkled with little purple weeds, dotted with clumps of yellow
I think about how much I love flowers.
Roses are my favorites, but daisies and wildflowers are a close
second, I think.
I like to think of myself as a flower. Maybe I’m a wildflower .
It would make sense, seeing as my spirit is as free
as the wind that blows the petals across the fields of green.
I am a wildflower.
I am the flower, firmly rooted to the ground, unable to escape.
My roots, they are tangled, and mangled, and torn, and broken,
but strong . . . they refuse to move.
Like chains, they keep me here where the seed was planted.
I am a wildflower,
trapped in a garden of weeds . . .
none of them wildflowers. We are not meant for the garden.
Oh no! Not when there are fields, and pastures, and valleys, and
hills, and mountains out there.
Here in the garden, we get food and water, and daily care. But
there in the world!
That is where I am meant to be! When I see the birds flying
overhead I shake with jealousy.
I feel the wind swaying me back and forth, as if it is calling
me. “Come with me, oh sweet wildflower. Let the world see your
beauty, while you see the beauty of the world.”
I want to touch the mountains. I want to sing with the sky. I
want to hear the wind saying,
“Look, I told you it was beautiful.” I want to dance with it,
as it carries me everywhere.