Wild Flower

I have read that the daisy is what you find

When you draw a flower, archetypal.

I tried to paint daisies on old wooden stairs of our apartment.

Gloom and dirt made short work of them.

In frustration, I ground them deeper in to the muck.

Some days I forget myself

This Mama with ideas discarded, lost in time.

Intent, wiping muddy hands in the folds of my skirt

I hold the blue, white, yellow to my face.

A hill full of flowers just as they are, nothing fancy.

Self-seeding, self-tending, delicate blooms.

Our nurtured expanse of wild, a conjuring trick.

So simple a luxury, I could have never foreseen.



Brooke’s Blog Space HERE

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