Where My Flowers Are

They are along the edge of the woods, in the meadow along the mighty river, in a little crack in the drive way, in orderly spaces in well groomed gardens. They are in old, forgotten cemetaries, in hedgerows along schools and shopping centers, in ballfields, along ponds and ditches, they popp up on cliffs, on top of windy hills, in an old and abandoned flowerbox, or almost empty clay pots. They grace parking lots, the side of the highway, they wind up mighty trees, fences and gates, they thrive between the corn, wheat and barley, they climb old barns, forgotten homesteads, they spread out when left unattended, to mark the spot a family once, so many years ago, took pride in owning. They are a prophet of seasons to come, they are a splash of cheer and color, they are visited by bees, bugs and butterflies, they soothe us with their eternal scents, and they always bring a smile to my face.