Wildflowers grow at my doorstep.
I think you saw them once or twice.
But you’ve come and gone so often
It’s hard to remember.
You used to tell me not to hope
That they were more than weeds,
I didn’t listen;
Then again, I never did,
Your words were always hard to trust.
Sometimes,
In the morning calm
They reach for the sun,
Their colors in full bloom.
And I realize how beautiful,
How subtle their growth has been
Up the side of my steps and onward.
But that’s just me now, isn’t it?
A subtle picture of growth,
Reaching for the light,
Blooming in newness.
And so, I plucked the flowers,
My reminder of my own growth,
From the ground;
For myself this time,
Not for you.
