Wildflower

Like abandoned covered wagons on the Oregon Trail these flowers litter the landscape with only a caring cloud looking over them.

They lean to the sun for nourishment and confession.

Occasionally a prancing pony stops by to say hello and have a snack.

There is no tip jar.

Roots are not deep, but the bright smiles and warmth embrace connect all the dots.

Past generations have come and gone.

Google maps cannot help you find them, although its rumored some have relocated to a painter’s palette.

One caught a jet stream and ended up in Phoenix.

The winds silent roll call…Enchanter’s Nightshade, Dragons Mouth, Grass of Parnassus, Pink Lady’s Slipper!

They are a dreamer’s dream, spun like cotton candy.

Please don’t disturb this!