They billow beside the road,
yellow and blue
and blowsy. Each April
they frill out from the tamped seed
of last June's tumbled down blossoms
forgotten in the fragrance
of cultivated roses and sweet peas.
But here, with rain's gentle nudge,
unbidden, up they come,
each time carrying that memory
of you whispering in the dark
decades ago, surprised by your find,
"Oh, what a wild flower you are."
– Christine Vovakes