Wild flowers erupt where silence once lay, scattering fragments of light into the air. They are the uncounted pulse of the earth, tangled rhythms that refuse straight lines. Each one leans into its own horizon, yet together they shimmer like a secret too vast to be held.

They are not arranged, not named, not bound—just breath carried on stems of color. A fleeting language, spoken only by the wind, that vanishes the moment you try to pin it down.

Wild flowers erupt where silence once lay, scattering fragments of light into the air. They are the uncounted pulse of the earth, tangled rhythms that refuse straight lines. Each one leans into its own horizon, yet together they shimmer like a secret too vast to be held.

They are not arranged, not named, not bound—just breath carried on stems of color. A fleeting language, spoken only by the wind, that vanishes the moment you try to pin it down.