To the wild flowers
To the small patch of wild flowers
I ripped up thinking you were weeds:
I’m sorry. I had not seen your bloom
Only leaves. I rushed to judge you
And your value. Return to this soil.
I welcome your seeds.
This poem was written as I looked out on my garden. Noticing a small bare patch that bore my mark of judgement. I’m tempted to leave it at that — as I love the power in allowing others to fill in the meaning as they bring their own experience to these words.
The morning I wrote this I was keen to stop, and be attentive to the present moment, and with that hold and expectation of Presence — that is to say: be open to the Holy — I hold this a high value — allowing myself to hear and sense wisdom for the day. This poem resulted from an ordinary yet Holy moment in the garden as I dwelled on this particular patch of ground. How quick I’d been to judge, how quick I had been define weed from flower. I was reminded of a parable of Jesus’ speaking of weeds and wheat, and of his words to withhold judgement. It was a timely reminder for me to hold all things lightly and not rushing to define what is purposeful and what is not, what lacks beauty and what is and expression of beauty.