Riot

There's an odd sort of dip in the woods
where the sun shines brightly dappled
through leafy branches and the wildflowers
run riot.

The precise cause of
this riot is unclear.
There are songs of freedom
with a hushing voice
whispering loudly of solemn oaths.
A banner has been raised for beauty
and a placard for
plain, lovable ugliness,
compelling not for what it shows;
the muddy depths of an underground river
bubbling suddenly forth.

The wind tiptoes through
the trees and shakes up
the grasses. Poison ivy
glistens greenly gleaming
and daffodils only laugh.

A maiden, stumbling upon this vale,
lifts her skirts to gather flowers
unthinkingly
containing their confusion.

On her wedding day,
she will wear them at her breast.