Where Wildflowers Bloom

She wasn’t planted with care or design,

No hand chose this patch of ground.

She rose through the rubble, cracked and dry,

Where silence was the loudest sound.

They called her a weed—unwanted, wild,

Too tangled to be tame.

But they never saw the quiet work

It took to bloom from pain.

Each petal carries pieces of

The wounds she used to bear,

Each leaf a scar that learned to green

From long-forgotten care.

The rain did not arrive with grace—

It thundered through her chest.

But even storms can wash the soul,

And give a seed its rest.

She healed in secret, slow and sure,

While no one thought she could.

She found a kind of rooted peace

That gardens never would.

Now she blooms in colors strange,

Too bright for some to see.

But she is proof that healing grows

Where wild things choose to be.