Wildflower Whimsy
I woke up, and the world was the same
as it was the day before, which is terrible.
Greedy predators were still in power.
The grim reaper had not visited a single one,
And women were still recovering from horrors
while the horrors themselves were given leniency
lest consequences impact their future.
People were still careless and entitled and angry,
and I’d put my own anger in a little box
because- fuck it — no one was coming to save me
but me, and there are days I cannot even save myself.
I woke up, and the world was the same
as it was the day before, which was beautiful.
Wildflowers pushed up where nothing else dared,
and butterflies danced over the weeds
the neighbors judge me for failing to pull up.
A friend leaves an offering of flowers and food,
and I crack the crust of fresh baked bread
and listen to the wind move through the trees.
Mushrooms grow quietly on forest floors,
snug against a carpet of moss nearly hidden under
leaves that would crunch delightfully
if any footsteps ever ventured near.
I woke up, and my heart was the same
as it was the day before, which was defeated.
I still felt everything in the hurting world,
and my own hurts were starting to show
because the box I kept them in
wasn’t quite big enough to contain a falling empire
or the crushing grief of poverty or the desolation
of trying and failing to make the world better
in the face of so many complacent people,
uncaring that they make it worse, uncaring
that people like me will feel everything
they refuse to feel.
I woke up, and the world outside the bed
did not tempt me to join it. Instead, I lay there,
trying to see another way out, trying to glimpse even
the tiniest bit of hope in a life that feels more like work
than life and more like struggle than joy,
and so much pain besides. I listened to the sound
of the birds just outside my window, too tired to consider
what stories they might be telling, too sad to wonder
how much longer they would survive in this hellscape
of a world that doesn’t care enough, and maybe never did.
I listen absently and then a little closer, as the sunlight
tries to sneak inside the room like I won’t notice
even though I’ve pulled the covers over my head. I lay there,
and I think about the wildflower, blooming suddenly,
a glimpse of joy in desolation, and I realize the strength it took
to push through a dark place only to end up in a dark place
and still persist in being joy and courage
and a stubborn revolution of one.
