flowers

she named the year 
wild
and first thought of waves
(the ocean calls her, always),
but then 
her days 
her feed 
her soul 
began to fill 
with flowers. 

she’s never thought herself 
a lily, so Luke 12 has always 
been for the birds. 

but wildflowers? 

                     oh.

she’s weaved them 
in her hair 
her poems 
her heart 
since she was small. 

and even in this (new?) war,
among the sadness
there are seeds. she reads 
of brave ones and 
goldenrod suns 
rising. 

::

In April, we poem.

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