Of Meadows and Wildflowers

Whenever I can, I take a short walk to the edge of the city. I like these in-between places, where the streets slowly give way to fields and meadows. Along the way, I find myself looking down, noticing the small things that are easily overlooked — delicate flowers, grasses, seed heads and the occasional branch. I bring a few of them home with me, never very many. Just enough to keep a little of what I have seen.

I often look up their names afterwards, curious about when they grow, where they come from and which plants they belong to. There is something satisfying about recognising them again the next time I come across them. What was once just a small flower at the side of the path slowly becomes familiar.

On their own, wildflowers become small works of art, revealing their fragility and transience. Their shapes and colours change, but their beauty remains. Some flowers open slowly, others begin to bend and fade almost unnoticed. A little pollen settles on the table where they stand, tiny traces of the meadow they came from. I like this quiet process of change. Nothing stays exactly as it was, and perhaps that is part of their beauty.