This life that strives to be so
picture perfect, like
a magazine, shiny and slick.
Colors so carefully cultivated to be
complimentary and seasonally
orchestrated more eloquently than an opus.
They want this garden to be a perfect pattern of
technocolor precision.
But I am no horticulturists project,
no hybrid of husbandry, no one’s
blue-ribbon winner at the State Fair.
I am the asymmetrical, unbidden bloom,
born to raise myself high and call
all my devotees, the bees and the butterflies
to my bosom, birthing nectar and scent.
A warrior designed to withstand the
withering heat that wilts my lesser sisters.
Easily at home on hillsides, sandy shores,
fields, plains, woods, and
every variety of earth.
I am a survivor, the strength that
seeds itself and needs
no gardener.
No greenskeepers derogatory terms like
“weed” or “nuisance” can touch me.
I am all things primitive,
native, natural, lush, and often outcast.
Willful.
Wildflower.
Poem by Lindsay Maruszewski
I am a former Nature Educator going back to school to pursue my Masters in Counseling.