Larkspur

It climbs like a spell spoken slowly. Blue, violet, sometimes white, as if sky had found a way to root itself.

Larkspur is delicate only at a distance. Up close, it’s tall, lean, and strange; petals shaped like wings, like spurs, like something halfway between bloom and gesture. It grows fast, then vanishes without fuss. Poisonous, they say, but only if you don’t know how to look.

In old stories, it guarded doorways, whispered to spirits, stood watch in moonlit gardens. Even now, it feels like a flower with a memory—of meadows before fences, of wind before names.

It doesn’t beg to be gathered. It’s the kind of beauty that lets you admire it, then keeps something for itself.