I like the places no one plans,
Where daisies press through pavement cracks,
Where foxglove leans with gentle backs
Against the rusted garden cans.

I take my tea near nettle beds,
Let buttercups crowd round my feet.
They don’t compete. They don’t retreat.
They nod like they have kindly heads.

Some call it overgrown, a mess—
But I have found it full of grace:
A bramble’s arch, the snail’s slow trace,
The sun caught soft in wilderness.

No need to trim or rearrange.
I write among the thistle’s hum.
The best things grow in their own time—
Let them bloom. Let seasons change.

• Where The Wild Flowers Are by Jay Rose Ana