Wild Blue

My Sky

Atop a dry exposed cliff stand I. But I do not stand idly.

Desolation and harshness are the names I call the rocks that crumble at my feet as I stand my ground. I pierce. I puncture. I expand. I push back. I grow. I am a weed and I belong where I want to be, not where someone says I might be allowed.

So here at the top of the dry cliff I strengthen my hold on this earth and turn my face up to the sun and to the wild blue sky. One might think I am a small soft flower, insignificant in the scope of mountains and rocks and shrubs, trees and sky. The hawks that soar high up above pay me no mind and the trees that sway in the same breeze as I are indifferent to me. I know my stature is small…