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Wildflower
August 12, 2013
Fire dances on her fingertips,
smoke escapes her nostrils.
I ask her what downtime is.
She’s forgotten.
She was a bud, now she’s bloomed.
Her colors shine in moonlight.
She fills me with her troubles as we glide on summer insects.
Sunset orange in the night.
We follow the blackened road,
bouncing off of yellow and white.
This is when she feels alive,
tunes and beer and fluorescent light.
You’ll know her when you see her.
You won’t know her at all.
She grew up strong and pretty and brave.
My grown up wildflower.
© Greg K., New Lenox, IL
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