Wild Phlox

In patches
along the landscape,

purple pink patches pushing
against sea shades of endless emerald green.

Radiant,
though unaware
of the beauty it offers.

Not trying.
Not allowing.

It simply is.

And this morning,
as a passenger crossing into Workland,

if I am paying attention,

I am reminded
that beauty need not be made,
nor summoned,
nor earned.

It is here already.

The wild phlox does not claim it.
The sun does not possess it.
Neither do I.

This beauty,
this love,

existed long before I took form,
before my name,
before my striving.

The same life

moving through root and stem,
through purple pink petals,
through emerald fields,

and through me,

for a brief while,

before continuing on.