When a rose blooms for us, we fancy ourselves great gardeners yet we don’t know even how a rose grows.

c.e. hollis

Wildflowers pop up in the grass of every meadow. They dance in the cool and wet spots. They flourish in the hot dry places as well.

They spring up in the ditches along the roads; and in the woods peep out from the carpet of last year’s leaves and pine needles.

They climb telephone poles, and balance like performers on barbed wire fences. The crawl clinging to walls and the float in streams and farm ponds.

They are pink, red, white, yellow, purple, orange, and blue. They are all shapes: stars, bells, teacups, circles, triangles, trumpets and swirls. Wildflowers are wild beauty and the day we stop seeing them and only love the greenhouse rose will be a sad day.

Published by Elece

I am a photographer and a freelance writer. I write stories, poetry, gift books, and magazine articles––both print and online. Photographing children, places, and especially flowers is my hobby.

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