Wild Flower


Beauty just is
moving with wind
colored with sun.

I walked for miles
with no destination
noting the frequency of
the wild flower

the pillars of stems
thorny or delicate
upholding the grace of
a small existence.

Many line the road
leaning with flare
But petals that unfold in
the wild find their way

where we’ll never walk.
I think, perhaps, that
is what it means to be
truly wild.


5 thoughts on “Wild Flower

  1. Don Royster

    That opening stanza is so true. Beauty is so transitory. It moves with the wind. One moment it’s there, the next it’s gone. I’ll be looking out the kitchen window in the morning. The sunlight, just for a moment, settles on the cactus. Hits it just right. And suddenly a bit of satori, then the moment is gone. It makes me think the Buddhists are right. One of my favorite essays is “In Praise of Shadows” by Junichiro Tanizaki.

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