"Coffee Walk Greetings" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
In the hush before sunrise, the garden waits.
Petals hold their breath, leaves glisten with dew,
and the first bird dares to break the silence.
Coneflowers lift their faces to the light,
as if remembering every dawn that came before--
and welcoming this one as if it were the very first.
It was still dark when I stepped out of the house this morning, coffee mug warming my hands. The air was soft with the quiet promise of dawn, and though the stars were fading, it was light enough to trace my familiar path through the garden.
As the morning light gathered—first in whispers, then in a slow, golden crescendo—the flowers began to stir. Shadows softened, colors awakened, and the day’s first beams of sun kissed the petals into brilliance. I smiled to see how the coneflowers had spread, claiming more space with each season. They are such happy flowers, their faces lifted as if in perpetual greeting.
Coneflowers—Echinacea—carry a long and storied history. For centuries, North American Indigenous peoples used them as medicine: soothing burns, easing coughs, tending wounds, relieving pain. The Kiowa for sore throats, the Cheyenne for coughs, the Pawnee for headaches, the Lakota for many kinds of pain. Early settlers took note, blending ancient knowledge into their own remedies. Even the modern belief in Echinacea for warding off colds traces back to those traditions. Each bloom holds not only beauty, but centuries of wisdom—stories rooted deep in the soil.
And as I stand among them, I wonder: if flowers could speak, what tales might these bright, steadfast blooms tell? Tales of summer rains and honeybees, of seasons come and gone, of the hands that once gathered them for medicine, for comfort, for hope.
My morning companions joined me as they so often do—the cottontail rabbit nibbling in the shadows, the neighbor’s tuxedo cat slinking gracefully between stalks of green. Overhead, the birds composed their own symphony, each voice adding its note to the day’s overture. Every creature, every blossom, every beam of light seemed to be telling a story.
And so it is with us. This day—this fresh, unmarked page—awaits the stories we will write upon it. Let them be stories that make the world smile. Stories that offer peace where there is unrest, love where there is hurt. Stories that honor and protect this glorious, fragile planet. Stories that, in their telling, leave a better world for tomorrow.
Because each morning, like the coneflowers, we have a chance to open anew.
“This is a wonderful day. I’ve never seen this one before.” – Maya Angelou
~Wylddane
Petals hold their breath, leaves glisten with dew,
and the first bird dares to break the silence.
Coneflowers lift their faces to the light,
as if remembering every dawn that came before--
and welcoming this one as if it were the very first.
It was still dark when I stepped out of the house this morning, coffee mug warming my hands. The air was soft with the quiet promise of dawn, and though the stars were fading, it was light enough to trace my familiar path through the garden.
As the morning light gathered—first in whispers, then in a slow, golden crescendo—the flowers began to stir. Shadows softened, colors awakened, and the day’s first beams of sun kissed the petals into brilliance. I smiled to see how the coneflowers had spread, claiming more space with each season. They are such happy flowers, their faces lifted as if in perpetual greeting.
Coneflowers—Echinacea—carry a long and storied history. For centuries, North American Indigenous peoples used them as medicine: soothing burns, easing coughs, tending wounds, relieving pain. The Kiowa for sore throats, the Cheyenne for coughs, the Pawnee for headaches, the Lakota for many kinds of pain. Early settlers took note, blending ancient knowledge into their own remedies. Even the modern belief in Echinacea for warding off colds traces back to those traditions. Each bloom holds not only beauty, but centuries of wisdom—stories rooted deep in the soil.
And as I stand among them, I wonder: if flowers could speak, what tales might these bright, steadfast blooms tell? Tales of summer rains and honeybees, of seasons come and gone, of the hands that once gathered them for medicine, for comfort, for hope.
My morning companions joined me as they so often do—the cottontail rabbit nibbling in the shadows, the neighbor’s tuxedo cat slinking gracefully between stalks of green. Overhead, the birds composed their own symphony, each voice adding its note to the day’s overture. Every creature, every blossom, every beam of light seemed to be telling a story.
And so it is with us. This day—this fresh, unmarked page—awaits the stories we will write upon it. Let them be stories that make the world smile. Stories that offer peace where there is unrest, love where there is hurt. Stories that honor and protect this glorious, fragile planet. Stories that, in their telling, leave a better world for tomorrow.
Because each morning, like the coneflowers, we have a chance to open anew.
“This is a wonderful day. I’ve never seen this one before.” – Maya Angelou
~Wylddane
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