Wild Garden

Why won't my mind rest in the kindness of friends and companions who are inclined, from time to time, to give me small gifts? How about strangers that smile at me, making eye contact? That wordless connection acknowledging, "I know you....We are the same."

Instead, I obsess over cutting remarks and rude drivers, whose only offering to me that day might be a middle fingered salute.
In the restless night, I latch on to some thought that I was slighted (real or imagined) the day before. Had the "slighter" remained awake in bed regretting their wrong doings, (real or imagined)? I think not.

I'm too sensitive "they" say.
Too thin skinned. Am I?
Were I not, would I still recognize and be filled with wonderment over a particular, majestic shade of blue in the sky? The sacredness of a wood path stone?

A dandelion grows contentedly in sidewalk crack,
bursting with color and life in the un-approved zone!
I'll not pull it. For in my vision, it is a tiny, wild garden in and of itself. Untended. Beautiful.
Maya