My Wildflower Diary

A woven black binding,
a rose-quartz cover.
when my eyes laid upon the flowers,
I wanted it to be mine.

Soon the corners became crumpled,
from journey’s in my suitcase
and the creamy pages pressed down,
with black ink and lead.

My pages filled from top to bottom,
with my messy slanted scrawl
and delicately printed flowers,
craving for soft hues.

It’s disarray of untamed flowers:
thistles, primroses, and violets.
A reminder to grow in places,
people thought I never would.

It is a beacon of light,
when times are dark.
Someone who listens,
when no one else will.

Each time my words are fluid,
pouring onto the sheets.
Carrying stories on its tethered spine
when mine is aching for a rest.

For it holds the despair,
of salty warm tears
and the bliss, of thick,
soft gooey honey.

A ragged black binding,
a smudged pink cover.
One look at the flowers,
and I know it is mine.