Wild Things

There were wild things growing in my backyard, and they were red, and green, and patched with color.

Winter kept me at a distance, so I almost forgot they were there until last night when they called to me in my bed, so I would remember.

The next morning I pulled up a chair,

And waited.

I waited for the wild things to speak and I tried desperately to listen (and also not to stare).

I stole a few glances and felt sticky, and wild; crawling and buzzing, and neon green among brown slugs that endured brown and burnished pistils that lingered as downward duds.

I heard a voice whisper, “Welcome,” so I walked in where there was a way.

I stood in the thick of blown cotton, chipped butterflies and winged fairies, feeling completely at home with one yellow tennis ball, two seashells, a giant Jeffrey pine cone lugged from Lake Arrowhead, the flower box I cut and nailed together (when I fancied myself a carpenter,) and the thrift store mouse under his impervious beige mushroom.

“You’re not so wild,” I said to the wild things, “You’re simply my old home.”

(Note:  It was almost criminal to whack these weeds down!  They were the closest kin I had to flowers.)

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6 thoughts on “Wild Things

    1. Thanks! Actually, what I lack in imagination I gain from a careful observation mixed with creativity😉 these were the weeds growing in my kids’ corner sandbox & I’ve been having fun using free online filters for my photos with some muted or colorful results.

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