to her, the wildflower

flowers, terrified of night, preferred to flee in the evening.

not her though. she wanted to stare from the depths of all that saddened each bloomed stem. all that endorsed the many arrangements deprived of strengthening their bond to Mother Earth.

living was her favorite solitude and despite what was seen as the abruptness of The Day’s farewell, these were the first drafts of living: both lasting and enduring.

to her, living would be what it is, not what others pretended it to be.

to her, life could and would be vast in it roots—both heavenly and melancholy, dark and light, full and empty.

to her, leaving to avoid the reality would cause her only an inability to see what she was capable of and who she could and would become—it would cause her a handicap of the heart and an irreversible curse on her soul.

to her, what’s a wildflower without the wild? what’s a flourishing flower without finding fate?

to her, what’s knowing the sun without meeting the moon?