To the white and yellow wildflower

sitting next to me in the grass,

you look lonely.

You are the only one of your kind in all the field,

and I understand how much that aches.

There are so many trees to shade you,

but all you want is to taste the sunlight—

then maybe you will feel like yourself again.

There are so many plants around you,

but all you want is one strong enough,

loving enough,

loyal enough

to cradle you in its leaves

and count the petals framing your face—

all thirteen of them.

There is so much wind to make you dance,

but all you want is for it to guide you

to a shoulder to rest upon.

To the white and yellow wildflower

aching next to me in the grass,

I wish I knew your name.

It is buried deep somewhere

in the soil of my soul, and I would speak it

if I could hear above the rustling trees.

You are the only one of your kind in all the field,

and yet you stand on fearless stem.

There are so many trees to give you shadow,

and yet you grow

with as many captures of sunlit glimpses

as you can seize.

There is so much wind to make you shiver,

and yet you dance to a breeze

that has known more coldness than kindness.

There is life in your petals, dear one—

all thirteen of them.

To the white and yellow wildflower

blooming next to me in the grass,

grow.

Dance.

I have yet to learn your name,

but I am here, and I see you.

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