Lost not to be found.

But to be newly found

Photo by everett mcintire on Unsplash

I have been leaving notes in the wild

Putting tearing strings away

Flinging a fine little aisle

Cause wildflowers never looked so wild.

Sturdy, never so thirsty

Dramatic imagery of these miniatures

Vintage of their own

No one knows how they were sown.

Wild, I declare

Stillness of skies, all grey

Days spent in brown

Playing in an ornate frame.

Washed off. No, they were not.

Delicacy in the face,

Ingrained in rocks

Beneath their veins.

Long Lost, were they in a valley?

Like my feet refrained from feeling

in that alley.

No belonging to nowhere

they creed.

Still, thy are proclaimed

as an ecstatic mountain yield.

Fetch me these, they resemble me

Lost, not asserting: 'I am found'

Since I left the ground

As I fall in love with the wilderness

Me, freshly found.

~Arushi Sahu

Sometimes it is good to be lost in between, and not knowing how to feel. Sometimes it is not about being found in the same place but growing in some other. Like those wildflowers in those ecstatic valleys, they are wild; they are fresh; they aren't found in gardens, but still their beauty is the winner of all races of flowers. Travellers find them, not calling them lost. Like them, I am found. Newly found after once being lost.