As my neighbor tells it, every morning
from an upstairs window,
her young daughter looks down
on my wildflower garden below.
If she were in my yard looking up,
the wildflowers would be twice her height,
but from her view, she can see
all their friendly faces smiling up at her—
white, red, and magenta cosmos,
blue cornflowers,
lemon yellow and bright orange marigolds,
zinnias in every shade of pink.
On thin stems among foxtails and bristle grass,
the wildflowers sway and bow
and nod to every passing breeze.
They beckon to butterflies and bees
and lightly scent the air with their wildness.
I’d like to tell my little neighbor
that they bloom just for her.
In a sense, I guess they do,
for they fill her child’s-eye view
with their gift of gladness.
They greet her each dawn,
welcome her to the delights of a day
almost as young as she is.
It’s as if they know that she, too,
will bloom and grow
and grace the world
with her own wild wonder.
But I know that wildflowers bloom
not for her,
not for me,
not even for butterflies and bees.
They bloom because that’s who they are;
that’s what they do,
and we are the lucky ones
who get to see them.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2026. All rights reserved.