I know the beauty of a wall that holds a flower. I know the struggle of the flower that climbed to the wall. And I know a hand that planted and built the wall. I have seen the flowers bloom on a wall. The dusty wall with flowers. I call the wall, the flower wall. The little boy, as little as two years walking in the neighborhood stops to observe the flower wall. I don’t know what goes through in his tiny developing brain. Or does he wonder too?
The flower wall makes me wonder too. It makes me wonder in spring when the wall is filled flowers.
Wandering Thoughts 