Not planted.

Wild roses. Planted by the wind, nurtured by mother nature’s capricious temperament. Like stubborn weeds they bloom in-spite of admiration or its lack thereof. Seeking connection with something familiar. Surrounded by what looks nothing like it. Struggling within itself, “why am I here?” “Why didn’t I get to No 64’s garden, I mean it is only two doors down?” Refusing to smile, ignorant of the pleasure its’ fragrance brings to a wanderer. Blindfolded to the reality that winter harbours same fate for one and all of them including those at No 64. A wild rose is still a rose. Photo prompt courtsey of Trish Nankeville.
Thank you Rochelle for hosting the writing event Friday fictiooneers. To rule is to write a 100 word piece in response to the provided picture. Please click the link to visit Rochelle’s blog. It will be worth your while. And click this link to read other stories and write ups. Some times we get stuck in difficult places and the stress makes us forget our blessings. We envy those being favoured or nurtured by the system. We begrudge them that blessing of famililarity and comfort that we forget what we also carry within and the blessing it can also be. It is indeed great to have people pour into our lives but sometimes we need to pour into others even when our tanks are slightly low. Keep the faith. Chin up and you will see thin pockets of blessings enriching your life. But you will only see it if you open your eyes.

13 thoughts on “Not planted.

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