Yarrow

On fluttering wings they fly.

I am forgotten. By all.

But the butterfly.

A voice carries on the wind.

I am a muse? I scoff.

Shh. It whispers. Your story is about to begin.

Chosen by the Goddess Thetis.

With a mother's heart and immortals pain.

Become my son's shield; she begs with a kiss.

Giving in to her plea, her son bathed in Yarrow's green stocks.

A demigod boy, and tiny white flowers.

An unlikely friendship. Unknown and unorthodox.

Hoping to mend and heal all cuts. Yarrow made a shield.

Wishing to spare harm to the boy; Achilles.

Yarrow's abilities astounded his friend. Such ability to heal!

Though remembered a hero. A warrior. A fighter.

Not a helm of metal he should don but a crown of yarrow.

Should not you recall the healer? And the wrong righter?

On the battle field. The healers flew.

With green feathered leaves.

He. They. Saved limbs. Made lives burn anew.

Like all good things, it soon came to an end.

Death came in unseen blow, parting the friends.

Breaking the heart of Yarrow; it was all too much to comprehend.

Lost in a sea of warriors and Gods.

Yarrow laid forgotten.

Consider a weed. A fake. A healer façade.

Wilted and weak. Yarrow went to sleep.

Thetis then carried Yarrow away in her bosom, through the depths of her father seas.

To a place with new faces, families to care for and to keep.

Yarrow became a silent hero. Lining pockets with hope.

Healing the carpenter's, the children, the old, and the weak.

Even in a new world, with Yarrow they could manage;they could cope.

Times changed, and laid Yarrow; forgotten once again.

Or is he...

But a hero's wonder? Waiting to begin again?

Yarrow remained silent, and still.

Not a stock moved as he stared out, and thought.

Perhaps his intentions were not all lost?

You heal cuts, save lives from blood loss;

Heal headaches, help with births; speak to spirits.

You're much more than one person can stumble across.

You bring people together in word, and in art.

Voiced the echo in the wind.

You are a hero, a friend, an élite; you do more than your part.

You know what I speak is true.

Then gone was the voice, the echo of words, and the pictured warrior.

Alone, but not alone in his meadow; he felt renewed.

He would persist

Between found, and lost. Between weed and healer.

He would survive. He would persist.