Wild Seeds and Nomads
...and so it happened that one with roots as deep as the wild fig, pulled free and soared up and on towards the seven seas. Others in the grove held tight, whispering farewell in fading light. As I was walking this morning, I came across patch of weeds that, against all odds, took root in a dry and barren soil. I once read that weeds were simply flowers growing where they were not wanted. Looking at the brilliant blue of the flower thrown by the chicory plants that dot our river walk, its absence from modern gardens is as hard to explain as its legend is easy to tell. In one such story, a beautiful maiden refused the advances of the sun and was turned into a chicory flower that had to stare at the sun each day and always faded in the presence of its might. Fortunately, the morning here was overcast, and I was able to capture the brilliance of the flower before it began to fade. I nipped one and carried it with me to the meeting that had me out at such an early hour of the day. I arrived a bit early and watched the group expand as members arrived. It made me smile, because like the chicory, no one in the group was native to this area. We have all pulled free and landed here to rest before continuing on to the sea.
