An unnamed wildflower

If you walk south along the East River in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, you will see a field overgrown with wormwood. The small flowers bloom between the wormwood like a shy bloom. When the wind blows, they shake with them. When it rains, they blend in like shield against the rain.

In a wormwood field, yellow, purple and white little flowers are waiting for me, and they bow their head out. I stop walking on my way to respectful flowers, hiding in the weeds.

After passing through the wild flowers in the deserted fields, there are many empty factory buildings. The weeds break through broken cement floors around factory buildings and try to weed out. They creep out of a heap of dust piled up between the brick and the brick wall and rises above the roof toward the sky. They stretch their head to save their life whenever they find cracks. I stop walking and look at them for a while with a very tender gaze.  

I walk through the abandoned factory area and enter the entrance of the neighborhood. Flowers boast of ‘I am pretty!’ The splendid appearance and color are striking. However, in contrast to the simple and shy wildflowers that blend in with the weeds in nature, I turn my head to tiredness with the appearance of their boast. I don’t feel comfortable in my eyes as if I am facing a group of refined plastic beauties.

Wildflower, you are wandering to the nameless Nomad and are not touched in the hands of anyone, and it is free as if it drifts in the wind.