i will not pluck these clouds from the sky and place them into organized time slots.

i will simply watch.

and see which cloud follows me home.

i wonder

how many people

have saved

something precious

without anyone

ever knowing

it almost

disappeared.

a flower holding its own small sunrise

i miss the way
autumn
tells its stories.

you may hear them, the wild things
that beckon in whispers on the breeze,
calling out to you
in a language whose secrets are lullabies
hidden within gentle sunsets

I am holding the tiniest sliver of hope like a wildflower gathered from the heart of summer.

What is a weed?

What is a flower?

Who decides what beauty is

and what it isn’t?

Are those flowers,

battered by the storm,

less beautiful?

Unworthy of notice?

An injured butterfly appears,

fluttering above me,

circling softly,

then resting beside me

on the rock.

Battered.

Torn.

Still flying.

Still beautiful.

And in that moment,

I realize…

I have all the answers I need.

a lone wildflower
crosses
the path
of my life,

shifting
the fog inside,

clearing
my heart-drenched skies.

Some branches hold jagged edges,
some quietly bow,
and others move with graceful sway.

I cannot help but wonder
if this is how they mark their days.

This season was too heavy to lift,
so I swayed.

A time of fierce storms,
so I learned to harden.

Missteps came,
so I pivoted,
leaving jagged edges
where I tried to make things right.

And then there were days
of gentle spring breeze.

My heart,
filled with grace,
danced through them.