Wildflower

Gentle be the summer wind 

on her fragile pedals quivering

in the afternoon sun,

shining softly upon the bluegrass.

Violet, the color, 

strains to describe the light

reflecting off her soft white pedals

laughing in the background.

Too bold to be picked or tamed,

inherent in her name,

like a wildfire

or wilderness itself.

She always stands disarmed

and brittle, like the cirrus clouds

but the cirrus clouds

mean a storm is gathering.

That’s the difference 

between the cirrus clouds and a wildflower.

The wildflower’s innocence

does not warn of destruction.

And as the heavy sky darkens,

the smell of rain fills the valley,

so proudly she stands.

With a thunderous uproar

the sky unleashes its torrents.

No battle will be fought here, though,

among these titans.

The wildflower has no time 

for such nonsense.

With a gust of wind

or just enough snow,

the wildflower sinks

back into the Earth

with her eyes closed and head bowed

and so,

when I die,

and as I live,

let it be like the wildflower.