The ones who grow.
Who rise like the dawn and set the sky ablaze with everything that they are, all that they create, the wide, wild worlds they’ve dreamed up and are hell-bent on fire-breathing into existence.
They might be limelight seekers, or sunlight bathers, or moonlight dancers.
The ones who poke petalled crowns through layers of dirt and dust and barren earth. Whose buds bloom through ash like phoenix feathers, who one by one dot fairy circles around their inner children.
Once you start looking, you might find a tribe of these wild wolves, faces to the sun, bending in the wind, dressed in glitter for the disco that is the breeze.
Wildflowers are precision archers with their words. Their roots burrow deep into souls. They dance on the white highway lines between making things happen and letting them.
They live outside their shadows. And inside their shadows. They take up couple’s yoga with their darkness, make love to their demons, dance with the wild, wild world, and shake it. Sometimes gently. Sometimes hard enough to create sparks.
And Wildflowers are vulnerable; sensitive to the tread of boots.
They can be cut down, plucked, dropped into vases, caged in the admiration of a kitchen windowsill. Many want to plop them in fish bowls, so they can always have front-row access to the mystifying Wildflower show. They want to pick them. They want to own them.
But it doesn't work out.
Because Wildflowers can’t be contained. We aren’t made for boxes.
And maybe we’ve tried to fit into all the spaces people have perfectly, pristinely hollowed out for us.
But Wildflowers can’t help busting holes, breaking windows, shattering assumptions. They let the debris of a thousand past lives fertilise the soil for the next one: today’s life, this afternoon’s manifestation of ‘me’, this moment’s poetry of living.
Wildflowers live in Eden’s garden of authenticity, creative expression and permission for others to embrace every single part of their wild, their flower.
No limits. Fierce. Raw.
They’re an RnB jam, a rap battle, a prayer to every saint’s mother.
Wildflowers are the ones that crack themselves open again and again to make the world just a little brighter, leaving a cacophony of endless seedlings in their wake.
they dream all night.
And wake up to build empires.