Wildflower

By Inesha N. Wahlang

I grew up, a wildflower, in a family of grace,

Where bonsais were trimmed into one perfect shape.

They lived by the rules — so neat, so refined,

While I bloomed in the cracks, a bit misaligned.

They watered with care, but only a kind

That taught you to shrink, not expand your mind.

“Be smaller, be quieter, follow the plan” 

But I dreamed of the sky, not the hand of a man.

I craved crooked roots and sun-chasing stems,

While they polished their pots like precious gems.

I was wild and loud in a soft-spoken way,

Growing sideways while they trimmed me away.

They called it rebellion, I called it breath,

To dance in the rain, to speak life from death.

To feel too much, to ache, to rise,

To reach for the stars with unapologetic eyes.

And though they never quite understood

Why I’d bloom in places no prim plant should,

I learned to be proud of my wilderness soul,

Of being whole in ways they’ll never control.

So here I stand, unpruned, unplanned,

With petals not shaped by a careful hand.

And maybe I’ll never be “just like the rest” 

But wildflowers don’t envy,

We bloom where we’re blessed.

By Inesha N. Wahlang