Happy Friday, everyone. It’s finally starting to feel like spring…..
Allow me to get one thing straight: we don’t sing.
Whatever you might’ve seen in those silly Disney movies is untrue. We flowers are a dignified lot and – you’ll pardon my saying this – but singing is a rather silly pursuit, even at the best of times.
No tiptoeing through the tulips for us.
Although if you ask me, the tulips are snobs, always with their bulbous heads in the air. They’ve gotten a bit big for their britches. But of course, don’t tell them I said so… Roses do not gossip. Or at least we don’t admit to gossiping, which is the same thing.
We were part of a garden once…. Such a very long time ago. But the roots remember. They’re good for such things, even if they are constantly harping on about the ‘good old days’ when there was tending and …. Pruning.
Lord, have you heard of a worse word?
Even the sound of it makes me shudder.
A long time ago, we looked out over an organized little garden – squared off paths and different plants each in their little sectors, growing like little green soldiers. I don’t remember, of course, but I’ve been told (over and over again – the stupid roots never keep quiet….).
I much prefer growing wild, dripping over the old trellis in a riot of color. There’s nothing like the sunlight on your petals, I’ll tell you that.
I have been told, by the blossoms that are closest to the hedge, that following the sidewalk, just beyond our little garden, is a school.
That certainly explains the steady stream of children making their way past us in the mornings, trotting on the way to a large brick building that I am told is just out of sight. I feel bad for them, all dressed alike in their uniforms.
It is, perhaps, because I am spoiled, that I feel this way…. I have grown free for so long that I cannot remember what it is to be confined. But I cannot help but feel, as the children walk past with their shiny-clean hair and their neat, neat uniforms, that they look …well… pruned.
I watch them gingerly sidle past puddles, avoiding the grass and the mud. They stay squarely on the sidewalk, on their way to the boxy brick building – another square for them to fit into. And certainly, they fit. But I wonder if they ought to.
It is with the slightest pang of self-satisfaction that I watch them file past every morning, gloating quietly in the spring sunshine. It is a shame, I think, that humans do not allow their children to grow wild.
There is beauty in the wild. There is so much more than they will ever know.
POV – (inanimate object) * female character * growing wild
Writing Prompt Courtesy of: