There is a soft beat inside you—
the sound you so often interpreted
as the footsteps of those who have run away,
imprinted on your soul.
But listen closer,
because this is the beat of your heart,
and it is here to stay.
Step outside, because the shivering breeze
blowing your hair is wind,
not the cold rush of an unfeeling sky—
such a thing does not exist.
The wind simply wishes
for you to listen to the song it plays in the trees,
and when it pierces and waters your eyes,
it is encouraging you to cry
after so long of striving to be strong.
I can see wildflowers growing
from the lines in your notebook
and the scars on your heart,
budding wider with every poem you write.
Hearts are drawn to you, and hands
reach out to touch you,
plucking you from the earth
before they realize the depth of your roots.
You are an ocean
deeper than most are willing to venture,
and a forest
coated with more colors than they know how to paint with.
They stay away from what they cannot understand.
This is why they fear you.
I know that you don’t often
even understand yourself
(but there are few who do).
Brushes in hand, you speak the artist’s language
and you fathom what you can paint.
But watercolors run dry when faced with your soul,
and you are left paralyzed,
confined to a mind that confuses you.
I know that you often feel so much
that you forget you are even feeling,
but this is not the burden you believe it to be.
Please believe me
when I say that the wildflowers in your heart
are worth the ache they take to grow.
There is no comparison that I could place
beside the world,
because there is nothing like it.
I’ve felt sunlight fade, I’ve watched fires die—
but this darkness is what is needed
for your seeds to sprout.
I know there is hurt
that bandages and poetry cannot fix,
and there is little I can say
that will do anything more.
But let me tell you this:
You are fields of sunflowers
and then some,
and you must not let this world
press your petals into its capturing scrapbooks.
Dear wildflower friend,
I hope the heartache eases soon.
But however long it decides to stay,
you have me.
When you feel yourself slipping through your fingers,
I will be holding your hand
and catching every last piece.
And when I have given them back to you
and you cannot remember the way they once were,
You have yet to meet all of you.
Be terrifyingly enchanted by this thought.
Cindy Green is a forest-wandering, poetry-scribbling stargazer with messy notebooks and messy thoughts. Despite her love for all of God’s creation, sunflowers and stars in particular have a way of sneaking into both her writing and her heart (but you won’t hear her complaining about it). She is an amateur sword-wielder with a Highland-dancing warrior spirit who also writes letters to the moon and considers the sky her best friend. A focused daydreamer, organized pack rat, and oblivious observer, she is a self-professing ambivert (or a living contradiction) who deeply feels both the beauty and fallen state of the world. Through her words, she hopes to describe the indescribable and form personal connections with people while reflecting a love for her Savior and a passion for everything she touches.