|do you see a weed or a wish?|
Let’s just say, I’m not an early morning girl. Those who know me appreciate this and quietly leave me alone until I’ve had a chance to emerge from my pre-coffee zombie state. However, there is a bird glee club that begins at about 3:30, yes in the morning. It’s lovely and melodic; leaving me no choice but to listen. Translated, this means I’ve been up before my norm. The youthful hours are warm, but fresh; they beg for a walk, and so does Isabella.
Yesterday was a little cooler so our pace was speedy, at least for my little legs. We passed cars and bushes and bugs zipping around … and the rejected weed.
pulled up by its roots
discarded wishing flower tossed aside
left at the edge of the sidewalk
the sun beat down
life ebbing from the slender stalk, leaves drying, privately curling
desperate to hold onto being
funny, how I noticed the thrown-away on a morning walk
my thought to stop and pick up the mopped, fluffy head
full of wispy seeds of would-be, it held a fundamental artistry lying in the dirt
but I passed by, ignoring what I saw
how common, to turn aside
the day’s weight diminishes, repeating my steps
wishing flower waits, roots exposed, vulnerable and beautiful
a tender puncture, I stop … seeing a weed, I reach for the possible
In the morning I had the inclination to bring the frothy blossom home. It’s exquisiteness haunting my thoughts. Come evening, following a similar walk, the wishing flower was positioned in a poignant arrangement on the ground, lingering. This time, the ending was altered. I gathered it from its exiled pose.
My wishing flower is an emotional snippet …
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