02/23/2026
This morning, from my kitchen window,
I secretly watched them again…
In the hills of Appalachia, there is a quiet gathering
that dances with the wind, slowly bobbing back and forth
to a rhythm all their own.
Their yellow, stark against winter’s brown,
a bright patch as if Gaia herself
cupped the sun in her hands
and pressed it into the soil.
They rise when everything else still looks weary.
Small but stubborn.
Soft but unafraid.
Signs of hope in a bleak season.
Promises that better days
are already pushing through the dirt.
