I saw a sign that read:
“WILD WOMAN GROWING WILD FLOWERS”.
A warning?
We drove by it so fast, I couldn’t see
The colors that collected around the sign,
Beauty tended by beauty.
I imagine the oxeye daisies mangled with yarrow
Warring with thistle, misunderstood
Bee orchid playing tricks on the devil’s spit
And oxslip, curled at the edge of the hazel wood.
Perhaps the wild woman hangs from a nearby tree,
Watching her flowers bicker and bud.
Her hair may be tangled and unwashed,
Her feet bare and sinking into the soil.
Perhaps she curses the rain before dancing in it,
Licking at the droplets like they’re wine.
She might bite and shout and cry when she pleases,
Loud enough for the nearby cattle to hear.
Perhaps she has no place to call home
Other than the plot where her flowers grow
The trees, the caves, the green,
All that let her be wild.
Originally from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, Caraline Shaheen is currently living in Boston and working towards her BFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College, class of 2026. Her work has been published in HYW’s 2025 Digital Magazine and the London Writers’ Salon’s “Writer’s Hour Magazine.”
Featured image by Annie Spratt on Unsplash.
