I was born a chrysanthemum,

blooming in the fall and finding home in cold winters.

Wrapped myself in my mother and father,

the three of us always growing as one.

Beautiful and soft, full of layers and layers of petals of which the years would pull apart

slowly revealing the center of who I was to be.


Many Junes ago, I had baby’s breathe growing from my skin.

There was a delicacy in the way I’d breathe and

empathy shimmered on my skin like the pavement after rain.

My eyes reflected the sun and dewdrops clung to my lashes the way I was holding onto last hopes.

My voice echoed with fragility and I my voice swayed whenever the wind found me

never quite sure of where I’d end up

or if I’d ever end up anywhere.


I find myself now to be a wildflower

growing fiercely wherever I choose.

I let the birds carry me from the toxic air and into the mountains, where I have found myself reborn.

I am blooming and flourishing,

my violets fading into brilliant yellows.

I choose where I set my roots and if I feel the need to wander,

I have the freedom to float with the wind once again.

I am thriving with sunlight radiating off my skin and the taste of crisp, cold air in my lungs.

I am a wildflower for now

and by next summer,

I may find myself to be a hydrangea in full bloom.

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