Wildflower, Wildfower teach us your ways

Today I walked five blocks to my friend's house.
Up three stories through scents of herbs, oils and wood.
I watched over our lunch of chickpeas and rice on the stove while she went down to fetch garden greens and flat bread.
We broke bread and spoke.
My throat felt tight and my voice felt small.
But when it was time to leave she placed eight okra seeds in my hand.
"Is that enough?"
With eight seeds now in my pocket I walked the two blocks to the garden.
North, then west.
The garden is always changing.
Sometimes fast, sometimes slow.
My patch of wildflowers has new blooms.
The golden poppies had burst weeks ago, and I had wondered what other colors waited in those closed buds.
This time, pops of blue and white.
Awe, and joy.
What to do at this sight?
Cut them down?
Take them for keeps?
...But owning them now is to kill them now.
They must stay in this wild space, where all manner of things can happen to them.
And I must be a non-grasping guest to them.
I know they won't last forever.
And so I acknowledge the open hand of flowing with Creation.
I poke holes in the watered soil.
Dirt under nails, I drop two seeds in each hole and bury them under to wait in the dark for the Law of Life to show its grace.
I walk around the bed.
There are snap peas to take and two strawberries.
I walk seven blocks home, snapping stems off between finger and thumb, and tossing them aside.
Crunchy, sweet and earthy, Mother feeds us well.
And tomorrow I will return, to sit with the blooms again.
I, welcoming them, and they welcoming me.
Each inviting the other to Be.

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