Wildflowers

For my mother

“You’re not a rose,” her mother said,

the words a thorn that pricked the skin,

leaving a tattoo that would not fade

not pretty

not beautiful

not worthy of being cherished

She wore that tattoo all her life,

Rebutting it with love and bubbles,

excitement and adventure,

strength and resilience

And yet, her mother was right

She is not a rose

with its predictable uniformity

its stoic, linear stem

its thorny dangers

She is not something to be placed in a vase

and admired for a few short days

only to be discarded

No, she is a field of wild flowers

Her roots deep and wide

to endure long winters

Her stems meander

going where the sun leads

face turned always to meet it

She blooms in many colors and shapes

Pushing through soil season after season

Rewarding all who pass

with her brightness and joy

filling bouquets of love

that children pick for their mothers