No hot house flowers, these,
bred for perfection,
dyed and trimmed,
and arranged to order,
clothed in ribbons and bows.

Not these.

No, these are hardy, raw and wild.
Grown under the sky, they’ve weathered
the wind and the rain and the heat.

These drew nutrients from the neighborhood soil and energy from the sun.
These survived pests and disease.
These grow where they were planted
by loving hands,
or the whim of birds,
or the caprice of the breeze.
These have petals washed by dew,
glowing with the colors of the hills,
the sea,
the prairies,
and the rocks.
Their delicate perfume carries in it the fragrance of earth.

No, not perfect, these.
Only holy, a blessing to
the eye,
and heart,
and soul.