Beside the still waters, the wildflowers grow,
one for each living being displaced
by flood or drought or fire. Nodding
in the rain, they whisper songs of comfort,
the strains rising like prayers.
The soil beneath your feet, they say,
is home. And all the air is yours
and the hours. And though we are far away
and mere wildflowers, our essence
flows to you to lend you strength
and to assure you that hands
will come to lift you, and hours
will come to soothe.