I saw the first wild rose flower today, it was startling to me in it's vividness, in the sheer power of it's simplicity. Just a chance glance to my left and my gaze is held captive by such a small flower that is it's own legend, playing upon layers of prose and poetry, notes crafted to it's exaltation. Then I swim through the fragrance of the wolf willows, whose stiff branches sway in the wind, a mother rocking such potent blossoms, cradling the power of a scent that is so dense as to stick within my nose, a liquid that pours down my throat, the taste of it sweet and pungent. Walking up the path alongside my fence, the dogwood spills in excess through the cracks, while the fescue grasses sprout through the cement as if the yard were simply exhaling so much life. Whenever I walk this way and up the path to the house, I have a moment where I recognize such abundance for what it is, while wondering why no one else seems to have weeds and bushes exploding out of their yards. There are many beautiful gardens on my walk, yet I am always aware of the wilderness sitting in my right hand while the cultivated beauty lies trimmed into a neat package in my left. It is the fundamental crux of my own existence. I feel as if, in this place, the boundaries of propriety and stoicism cannot contain such wildness within, some essential part of me squeezing through the cracks in the walls, spewing, overflowing like flesh spilling out as the strings of a corset are loosened. It scares me at times, this untamed part of myself, that refuses to be pruned into neat shapes of conformity. Scares me with it's liberation and all the implications of such unorthodoxy. Scares me and thrills me in a some shivery way that rolls down my spine in defiance and glee. Yes, thrills me to the point of exuberance, but only when I feel as if the seeds of my thoughts are allowed to spread out like wildflowers.