Autumn brought a chilly wind

Autumn brought a chilly wind
across the river, to the little glen,
where waving in the bracing breeze,
a fading blossom 
                       dropped, 
                                    six,
                            seeds.  

            One was 
                     briskly 
       whisked 
                    around
          by gusts
                   before she 
                               kissed 
          the ground
                        to drift
                                      directionless
                               it seemed,
               as if suspended 
       in a dream.
When the wafting let her fall
atop a cobbled cottage wall,
she made a fragrant blooming home
of gray, gloomy monochrome.

                           One was
                  picked                up                       
               from                          the                          
              ground       by               a                        
               wagon                 wheel                  
                   and               rolled        
                            to town
by a roma vardo, drawn by a horse;
(the cart was gilded and carved of course.)
They shortcut thru the little glen, 
then hooked up to the road again. 
The seed made its way to the fairground 
where it stayed till the circus came to town. 
On opening night, Whimsy the clown
walked out of the big top to peek around.
Of course, by then it was spring;
the seed had bloomed into a lovely thing.
Whimsy picked it as just the flare
to wear in her huckleberry hair. 
During the finale, in mid-whirl,
Whimsy pitched it to a curly-haired girl
who pressed it in her journal pages
then left it behind, at a certain age,
to decades later be rediscovered 
by her daughter, who loved the lovely all over.  

                                  1 
                               was
            plucked by a hungry crow 
who flew away, then swooped down low 
                             to stop
                             to see 
                       a shiny thing,
and dropped the seed beside a swing.
A withered woman waited there;
weakened; wilted with despair. 
The swing had been their haven place
before The Grieving creased her face.
Tears were falling from her cheek; 
one fell salty on the seed.
You’ll presume it lunacy, 
but that seed bloomed immediately!
The woman fondly smiled, then reached
to touch the blossom on the cheek.  
They say magic isn’t real,
but tell that to a heart that heals. 

                     One  
                                 snagged 
                    a ride              
                                    on a
                   puppy’s 
                                    paw
to a lavish garden that abides no flaw.
It poses as a flawless space,
no rose or posy out of place.
When she was but a little bud
she seemed to fit in well enough;
the gardener trimmed her back, you see,
if he glimpsed her novelty.
But, when she bloomed uniquely,  
the gardener deemed her a weed
then chopped her essence from the earth…
not all seeds get the love deserved. 

One
     was 
        washed 
           away 
               by 
                 rain
                     into 
                   the 
                 river 
               to
                  drift
                         for
                           days
                          until
                        it
           reached
a field of grass
                        in
                           a bend 
                                   against 
                                               a friendly bank.
Deep and slow, the river flowed;
the seed saw winter solstice go.
Her field was idle, at least it seemed,
but she sensed possibility.
Hidden from view was preparation;
roots, then shoots of the next generation;
Wildflowers!… far as you could see! 
All one, each unique;
integrated diversity;
celebrated identity;
innerconnected family;
mightily flawed and none judged a weed. 

Only one of the six seeds stopped 
to root and bloom where 
                                           she 
                                                was 
                                    dropped.
Like her siblings who dispersed,
she slept till spring renewed the Earth.
She didn’t have grand escapades, 
get whisked or snagged or swept away;
yet she flowered, til the wind
returned to chill the glen again.
Then she let her own seeds go;
perhaps to stay beneath the snow,
or blow or roll or roam or flow or fly;
to find a home; 
to thrive.
Every seed deserves to be 
celebrated as unique;
to be accepted;
           be empowered; 
                       be connected;
                                  be a wildflower!