I was a wildflower once,
rooted in the cracks of your chaos,
growing toward the faintest light,
even when the sky burned red.
You called me fragile,
but my edges were sharper than you knewâ
each petal carried the weight of storms,
each stem bent but never broke.
On the flipside of us,
I see the wildfire you left behind,
a blaze that swallowed the meadow whole,
turning softness into smoke.
But even ash can bloom again,
and I will rise, unyielding,
not as I was,
but as something you can't hold
or burn away.