In Spring, we top our tables with flower bouquets arranged in vases — colors and stem heights balanced. We fill outdoor beds with rich soil instead, and re-home bulbs and nursery babes, evenly spaced, and line those perfectly made beds to keep away grasses, imposing. We take what is wildly grown, make it our own, tame it in a way. And that has its glory.
But my ahhs and ohs are reserved for the gems hidden among weeds, brush, and thorns. Where the lupine and prickly meet and laugh and sing and bring truth, even if it stings a little. Where it makes sense that the tattooed cactus and the bonnet-wearing belles would find joy in sharing the scorching sun on the same floor.
Wildflowers are the odd neighbors we watch from our windows who make us uncomfortable but seem to be enjoying life most. They are the type of blooms that run around outside without their shoes, refuse to wear sunscreen, and are a bit rough around the edges. (When exactly was their last shower?) Nothing polished or pruned. No special-blend soil providing constant affirmation. Instead, wildflowers are resourceful, loud, unkept, and full of joy. They’re wild — and so, so beautiful.
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