Autobiography

Autobiography
by Linda M. Smith

I’ll ever be a wildflower.
I will never be a rose.
I’m born to bloom on the hillside
Where the wandering wind blows.

Not displayed in potted splendor,
Nor hothouse stifling air,
Coaxed, and soothed, and pampered
Into an image visioned there.

But to grow in God’s own garden,
Where rainbow colors dare,
To slip the bonds of everyday,
And their own rare beauty share.

To feel the sun unfiltered.
To taste the raindrops wet.
To brave the storm cloud’s fury.
To stand the sleet, and yet . . .

To run in wild profusion
With my fellows on the hill.
To crowd in sweet communion
In stormy air or still.

No. No petals made of velvet.
No delicate blush that glows.
I’ll always be a wildflower.
I will never be a rose.

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