The wildflower cannot know the kiss of constancy
borne of the gardener’s measured hand.
Carried aloft on the tempest’s breath,
she seeks to root herself in solid soil,
a victim of the nature she wold defy in blossoming.
No gentle spray nor nourishing earth is she guaranteed upon this journey,
only the rough tyranny
of tremendous rains and scorching sun.
What glory in dear wildflower’s passage beyond the fruit she bears?
And yet, no solace there, for the wildflower, too,
must release her seed unto the carefree winds
that saw fit to drop her here, where, despite oftentimes drooping bough
she may yet inspire another
with her splash of vibrant color
against a lifeless shock of land.
~Mary Stewart Adams