The morning we planted those wildflower seeds,
sprinkling them between stones and crevices
and old pots weary with age, we whispered words
of encouragement and gentle blessings.
We held our breath during fierce storms, the ones
that sent us reeling with each lightning strike and
those that howled with troubled winds.
We hoped our tender seeds were safe from harm.
We waited as a fiery sun bathed each spot with
warmth and energy, the air thick with heat and humidity,
and hoped it was not too much for the life sprouting
just beneath the surface.
Sometimes the spray from the hose provided relief
or even laughter as we squirted one another with cool water.
Sometimes the idea of what was to become —
beauty, wild and unadorned, sustained us through darker days.
We celebrated as each new flower revealed itself,
small blossoms exploding with color and personality.
Creations made of fire and rain, drought and flood,
they are survivors…
as are we.
prompt: Sunday’s Whirligig 48