As Wildflowers Bud and Bloom

a compilation of poetry on springtime, easter, and beauty in the broken

Apr 22, 2025

As wildflowers bloom and bud, so do words in the poet’s mind.

This has been my first April trying to do napowrimo (a poem a day for the whole month). At first, I thought it might be difficult. Now, I realize the only hard part is picking one poetic thought of my day to expand into broader words, images, and themes.

When I was a little girl, I would mentally repeat lines I heard from a book or song or speaker while tapping my fingers against my leg to the meter of their words. I would rhyme lines in my journals, fiddle with assonance and dissonance. Before I even knew what poetry was, I was a poet. But even poetry comes with seasons. Muses plant their seeds, sorrows water what must be birthed anew, and, in time, sunlight washes over the muddy ground, awakening budding and blooming things.

Writing poems every day for a month, I have seen the process of all of those poetic seasons. Some of my poems have been birthed in exhaustion…others in wonder. Some have been oddly plucked from muddy words before the seeds were fully sprouted and others have been easily gathered from the blooming buds of fresh wildflowers.

I have compiled a few of my favorites—a kind of poetry bouquet for you. I hope they are sweet-smelling aromas to your souls and remind you of springtime rain being washed over by morning sun.

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Poem 12: April 12
“Water Breathing on Color”

Watercolor defines itself:
Water and color seeping into each other,
Pooling on paper like puddles of ink,
Spilling o’er edges like tears on the eye’s brink.
So much beauty.
And magic.
And wonder.
But the colors are useless unless awakened by water.
A dozen little tiles of color waiting to be art,
A dozen little squares of paint—lifeless without water.
Today I found a special honor
Birthing form into the color.
And as I awoke the paint with water,
I heard the whisper of my Father,
“This is the image I created inside thee.
You are made for my Spirit,
A temple born to hold glory,
To embody my life and the beauty within it.
But until you’re awakened, you’re just a tile of color—
A small mound of clay,
A gathering of dusts.
You’re designed to be formed into creative wonder,
But you will only be paint unless water breathes on the color.”
So, I held my shapeless form up to Him,
And prayed, dear Lord, if it's in Your will,
Breathe water on this paint again.

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Poem 18: April 18
Resurrection Prayer VI: “Little Lamb in the Garden Green”
(I wrote daily resurrection prayers/poems through the week leading up to Easter; this was on Good Friday)

This morning I met Thee upon the roof
To honor the birth of the sun’s first light.
And the break of dawn held whispers of truth,
To my sleepy eyes, they granted sight.
First, I saw the fog—how heavy it fell;
But the birds still flew through the thickened veil.
Then I heard our lamb, her bleating unquelled,
Her mother responded from her grassy chair.
From here above, my lamb looks so little,
Swallowed by garden, tumbling through weeds.
Thou, too, wert small in the garden bitter,
Where to Thy Father loud cries turned to pleas.
The morning quiets, my lamb finds her mother,
But Thy Father watched Thee, for love’s sake, suffer.

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Poem 20: April 20
Resurrection Prayer VIII: “I Know Why Death Remains So Silent”
(Easter Morning)

This morning, church members volunteered to sing
A joyful song of praise during offering.
A woman arose, “I’ve a broken voice,
But I still long to make a joyful noise.”
She began to sing, voice cracking and strained,
But the heart of her offering never waned.
Then her daughter stood and joined in sweet song,
Soon others stood—until the voice was strong.
A wobbling voice turned to anthems of life;
One willing heart splitting dark with light’s knife.
All she had to give was a broken voice,
Yet, oh, how weakness becomes joyful noise.
Lord, I know why death remains so silent:
Light won by the weakness, darkness quiets.

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Poem 21: April 21
“Monsters and Poets”

A poem a day keeps the monsters away.
At least, that’s what I tell myself when I’m afraid.
It’s not that the creatures disappear altogether…
In fact, they become even realer than ever.
But their realness is broken and messy and bruised—
Just like all of the subjects this earth has abused.
When I open my eyes to the wonder of life,
When I softly awaken the poet inside,
I see things more clearly
And plainly…
And gently.
The monsters are no longer haunting my sleep,
Their shadows don’t fill every hollow I keep.
Instead they are renters in empty rooms of my mind,
They settle there, homeless, and gathering grime.
Their faces are angry but their eyes are afraid…
As if they feel exposed in the light of the Day.
But one day the sun will wash the anger away…
And even the monsters will smile and say,
“A poem a day keeps the monsters away,
For the hope of a poet binds the broken things’ pain.”

My most recent poems have all be part of my resurrection prayer collection which I have posted in my notes. If you would like to pick your own poetry bouquet from the “garden” of my poetry prayers for lent and easter, I will link them below…

I hope these little pockets of poetry will give your heart a reason to smile and find a kindredness with your soul. Take time to notice the “wildflowers” in the garden of your life today. ♡

For as wildflowers bud and bloom, so does the poet’s heart…and so does the listener’s too.