I'll Be Where the Wildflowers Grow

 I am not chasing you,

though it may seem so in the way

my eyes return to where you once stood—

like a sunflower that leans east each dawn,

not because it is desperate,

but because it knows

where the warmth once came from.

No, I am not running after you.

I do not trail behind you breathless,

pleading for your shadow to turn around.

I have not made a shrine of your silence.

I am the wind skimming the lake—

touching, letting go,

returning when the sky calls for me.

I am the river—

moving always,

but not toward you.

I flow in my own direction,

carving stone with soft insistence,

not for approval,

but because it is what I was made to do.

I wait, yes—

but not like a forgotten seed in winter soil.

I wait like the moon does,

certain of its return each night

even when clouds make no promise.

I wait like dusk,

knowing light will always shift again

toward gentler tones.

You may think my patience

is a form of pursuit,

but it is not.

It is the strength of the hawk in the updraft,

wings open,

resting on unseen forces,

watching for a sign—

not out of need,

but because discernment is its nature.

I am not begging for your clarity,

but I am offering mine.

Like moss that grows steadily

on the north side of trees,

I have aligned myself

with quiet truth.

I know where you are.

And more than that—

I know where I am.

Do not mistake my presence

for a plea.

I do not sit in stillness

to be consumed by your storms.

I have built shelter

in the forests of my own resolve.

And still,

I leave the door open

because I am not afraid to hope.

You see, I was made for this—

not just for the waiting,

but for the weathering.

For the aching in between.

For the way you pull close, then recede,

like tide against stone,

and I remain

shaped, yes—

but never shattered.

I do not drown in your hesitations.

I braid my breath

into reeds by the water,

build boats of patience

and let them drift.

I sing to the trees

what I never say aloud:

that I am not chasing you,

but I will not run from what we are, either.

So take your time.

I have no leash in my hand,

no rope between us.

But if ever you find

your roots restless,

and your compass unsure—

look for me.

I’ll be where the wildflowers

grow despite the frost,

walking forward,

but never away.