There are flowers… and then there are flowers.
As a teenager, I used to have to divert one my horse’s head away from chomping on anything he road past. We’d be out on the trail, bit in mouth, and still he’d get his lips around leaves, tall grasses, and yes…lovely wildflowers.
I’ve never been one of those frilly Victorian type girls. You know the kind that blushes over roses and thinks every shade of pink is better than the last.
When I was younger, okay really young, I used to play out in the pasture fields most of the day. I’d pick all kinds of colorful wildflowers and bring them back to my mom. Most of the time they were just dandelions, morning glories from down by the bus shed, or Queen Anne’s lace. (which I really didn’t know what they were called until recently when I decided to look them up on the internet. Got to love Google images, right?)
I’ve come to realize that I have heart for wildflowers. Maybe it’s because they can grow freely and bless the fields and lanes in places outside of towns and cities. They don’t harm anything, but bring just a speckle of color and simplistic beauty to where ever they grace their presences.
No one plants a wild flower, it just grows.
A lot like me. (or at least before I had a family of my own.)
Bring me a bouquet of wildflowers any day and I’ll take them. Roses are nice on occasion, but wildflowers make me smile more.
It’s summer and the wildflowers are in high bloom. Some have come and gone with the spring, and some are just blooming at the signal of the rising temperatures. I hardly see them in the grocery stores, just roses and carnations by the dozen. All died in unnatural colors to meet market demand.
Now that it is summer, I yearn for those blissful days of walking barefoot through the pasture and saving a loosestrife and aster from becoming cow cud.
I’d much prefer them in the window, in a mason jar, with Queen Anne’s lace keeping them together.
After all, flowers are a girl’s best friend.