They grow without;
Human intervention;
Not cared for by gardeners;
They are not pruned, hybridized nor fertilized;
By human skill or whim;
They are planted by the wind and spit of rains;
Nourished by the earth and controlled by each season;
They find their own best of place;
Even adapt to altered by man's invasion;

As long as life leaves a patch of earth behind;
They make room for new beginning;
A future untold from the black earth into dust of hopes;
The wildflowers are hinges back into bits of ground;
Quiet a miracle;
As man damage;
How much he destroyed or hurt;
She " builds "...



by
G Circa Barcelo Regehr
September 7th, 2010
Burnaby, BC