Wilted Flower

The wilted flower,

grown from a mother with a rotten seed.

Passed down for generations,

from stems that bleed.

Beaten down by hands that spite their creed.

Destined to be forgotten,

looked upon as a weed.

Placed into schools

to forget their own roots.

Forgetting their language

of how to bear fruits.

Not allowed to learn

how to grow new shoots.

Yet still, wilted flowers

grow under heavy boots.

So weak and broken,

they reach for the light.

Breaking through hardened clay,

they weave their roots tight.

Dried out and neglected,

they see without sight.

Their veins endured,

never forgetting to fight.

Never forgetting to grow,

and the warmth of the sun.

Their history in the land,

though great damage was done.

Its seeds still spread—

a new way of life has begun.

Wilted flowers survive,

generation by generation,

one by one.

This poem is about intergenerational trauma passed down from the legacy of Indigenous boarding schools. It’s a tribute to my great-great-grandmother, and all those whose identities were stripped but whose roots still hold. Even wilted flowers remember the sun—and keep growing.