Linda Motzek

Petals remember in quiet ways,

soft as morning light on a windowsill.

They don’t speak in sorrow or in sermons,

just open—steady, gentle, still.

Each bloom holds a color of laughter,

a shade of days we carry on,

like gardens that keep on growing

long after the gardener is gone.

There is comfort in their small bravery,

how they lean toward warmth and sky,

never asking how long they’re given,

never needing to ask why.

So we gather these moments like wildflowers—

unpolished, bright, and true—

a field of memory and kindness

that quietly leads us back to you.