Chamomile

They say she was once a star who chose to fall, just to touch the ache of the world with her own hands. Now she scatters herself across open fields in gold and white. A tender bloom offering without asking. Waits without needing. Holds sorrow without rushing it away. A small mercy. A light touch. She reminds us that healing comes as a wildflower—without permission, without precisions, growing in broken places. Not in straight lines, but in the soft chaos of return. She blooms in the wake of endings. In the silence of surrender.