Bloom Where You’re Planted

by Jennifer Wren Call

This Pacific Rosewood—
Milo, Mallow—
grew where it fell.
Once a seed, dropped,
it couldn’t ask for better soil
or kinder wind.

And it grew anyway.

Life, an animate thing,
makes no promises.
It offers no ease,
no perfect place to root.

Still—
I chose color.
I chose growth.
I chose to bloom.

The heart blooms brightest
where it refuses
to wither.