Wild Flower Love
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Wild Flower Love
Daniel Henry Rodgers
"Love isn’t some neat little garden all pruned and predictable. It’s wild maybe crazy, messy, untamed, stubborn. It takes root in the strangest of places. It weathers storms and keeps on stretching, even when the world says it shouldn’t. This—this is that kind of love. My kind of love," - Daniel Henry Rodgers
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O’ my dearest love,
I gather the world’s rarest petals for you—
Ghost Orchid fragrance lingers
in the marsh’s quiet air
look, love, it fades
then rises in
the curve of my hands
on the curve of your hips—
like time
like breath
like us.
But love is not only fleeting—
it lingers
it deepens
love is touch, is warmth,
the flush of skin beneath longing hands.
Sweet Juliet Rose,
color of the inside of your thigh
the softest skin where my lips have been
where time presses its thumbprint.
Isn’t that what love is?
The slow-blushed tender cheeks—
the breath before
the hand resting, waiting
the bloom that knows it will fall
but does not care.
Yet love is more than softness—
it survives
even when the earth cracks
even when the wind carries everything away.
Love reaches—
like roots
like thirst.
Ghost Flower,
desert thirst
your name is a mouthful of wind.
But devotion—
devotion is water
is the split earth drinking.
Roots stretch for you
drinking deep of rain
seeking the touch that finds mine—
even in dust
even in distance .
But love does not always bloom in boldness—
sometimes it’s the small
fierce things that endure.
Forget-Me-Not,
small, fierce, sky-eyed witness—
do you remember, love?
First hands held,
first inhale
between words we never spoke
yet always knew.
Gentle, simple—
forever new.
Love is not just memory—
it stands
unshaken
even when the tides rise.
It holds firm
radiant
against the storms.
Sea Dahlia
clings to shifting sands
salt-wind radiant—
like us
standing, laughing,
when storms came
when tides tried to take us,
when the wind called let go—
we held.
Freedom and devotion—
always
always
And when the waves recede
love burns—
bright, alive
fierce as the flames that forge it.
Fire Lily,
you touch my eyes and I feel the burn—
not the old hurt
not the old flames
but the warmth
still hot
still here.
We walked through fire—
our hair still scented with smoke
our ribs lit from within.
Yet now
you turn to me
golden and quiet
still singing the love songs
that carried us through.
Even after fire,
our bond cools like river-stone
lays its hands upon the wound
knits the broken earth with quiet roots.
Purple Coneflower,
healer in the wind-lashed prairie—
your voice, love, a balm
a salve
when the world ached
and we had nothing
but each other
and the quiet in-between.
Healing comfort
silk and lace
wild devotion
fierce grace.
The morning light
caresses your face.
In the quietude, in the frost,
love doesn’t fade—
it turns to the light
pulling warmth
from even the coldest corners.
Arctic Poppy,
sun-seeker in endless cold—
even in winter
even in silence
you turn to light
pull it from my heart
from my mouth
from the frozen air between us.
Courage,
perseverance,
hope and renewal—
like florets bright on tundra’s edge
you stand with me—
a vow pressed
in the palm of your soul.
When the waters rise
love doesn’t drown—it flourishes
lifting its florets above the flood
finding beauty in the murk.
Swamp Rose Mallow,
we awaken where the water takes our ankles
where the mud climbs our calves
where the world says drown—
but love
we rise.
We flourish in the rot
in the rich, black silt
our sepals soft against the flood.
Beauty amidst adversity
purity
passion rooted deep
a flower born of swamp and stream.
Even tears, love turns into jewels.
What falls
what breaks
becomes the bloom
that carries us forward.
Queen’s Tears,
jewel-drinker
rain-fed marvel—
isn’t that us, love?
Taking what falls
what spills—
sorrow turns to petals
wounds into song.
Regal,
bittersweet—
love shifting
growing—
with every tear
a jewel blooms
a love only time bestows.
Now I lay these at your feet, my dearest love—
this bouquet of us
this world
this wilderness of us—
petals and roots.
No vase can hold us
no garden tame—
we are bloom and root,
flood and fire
storm and stillness—
the reaching,
the holding,
the promises that never let go.
We are petals in the wind
yet always returning—
the vow not spoken
but known
the breath between words
the light that bends toward us
even in the dark.
Love—
No garden can tame us—
No wind can take us
Not what time erases
Nor what fades—
But what remains.
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2025
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