the beauty in wild flowers—
Gardeners often root them out
suspicious of their powers;
So as they grow, they learn to hide
from gardeners like me—
To stay outside the garden gate
(as frightening as that can be)
And there they stay, accepting fate—
living as though lost—
But life itself soon draws them out
regardless of the cost;
And then we find their bloom’s begun,
in spite of all their guile,
And they start preening in the sun—
or just looking for our smile—
Yet still we leave them to the frost,
or mow them to the ground,
Consigning them to loneliness
too painful to write down….
Hang on to life, wild flower,
keep reaching for the sky,
With all your different charm
we’ll pick you by-and-by;
We’ll plant you in our gardens,
and grow you in our hearts;
We’ll give you space in every plot,
and that is just a start:
Our gardens will grow wilder
and very different too
And these, my dear wild flower,
are my promises to you.
The very best gardens
fill with beauty as it grows
And the true gardener
loves all flowers as he finds them.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.
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