Wildflower Children

My children are the wildflowers of the world.
They grow where roses never grow
And flourish in all corners of the globe
Where lily and iris would soon wilt and die.

They are sometimes not as beautiful
As orchids and other tropical blooms,
But their sheer perfusion and colour
Dazzle the land and reflect into the sky.

My children thrive on lightening and thunder.
Spring rains and floods are their parents.
They take so many shapes and forms
Their growth is abundant and confused.

Even in torrid and frozen wastes
They thrive and return from year to year.
When their climate turns against them
These children mutate and get stronger.

My wildflowers are the hunters of the world.
Who seek new climates and invent new colours.
They take strange and wonderful shapes
And sometimes hide their blossoms.

Because their beautiful and graceful cousins
Make fun of them and call them names
And tell them they are deficient –
Even a danger to their own existence.

But my flowers are the reflection of us all
And the world would not exist without their light.
All colours would fade without the annual
Renewal of my wonderful wildflower children.

Byron Kocen