imperfect

when staring through blurry glass

toward a wayward wood

hastily climbing up the distant hillside,

i glimpse

wildflowers desperately chasing

the trees

yet finding themselves

trapped behind tiny fences.

instead the wildflowers stare

at the glorious wood,

sprouting, reaching, and growing

in every direction

as they, the wildflowers,

wallow in their captive pen.

bright colors spring forth

as the wildflowers sway and strain,

longing for escape.

golden yellows, muted purples,

even a few indigo and pale pinks

peek through the leafy green

stems.

the wildflowers sigh

as they drench themselves in

the rays of a hellish sun.

waiting.

to be rescued,

to be broken free from

the ground which holds them captive

behind their fence.

the wildflowers wait

so very patiently

and

so exquisitely beautifully

for their turn to be imperfectly

perfect.