Wild Flowers and a Martini Painting

As I sit by the table and observe the flowers and Martini sprinkled with little purple weeds, dotted with clumps of yellow daffodils, I think about how much I love flowers. Roses are my favorites, but daisies and wildflowers are a close second, I think. I like to think of myself as a flower.Maybe I’m a wildflower . . . It would make sense, seeing as my spirit is as free as the wind that blows the petals across the fields of green. I am a wildflower. I am the flower, firmly rooted to the ground, unable to escape. My roots, they are tangled, and mangled, and torn, and broken, but strong . . . they refuse to move. Like chains, they keep me here where the seed was planted.