Waxing poetic on thoughts, theory & the times
The flowers were dying,
And yet remained beautiful
Even with rust-colored edges,
I grieved to see them go,
As petals fell,
And valued them in their present state,
But knew even this too shall pass;
I cut a sample of each,
Hung up to dry,
And the memory of the intent and this treasure
Is preserved.
Fragrant peony intermittently perfume my senses,
From those blooms set in a vase by my grandmother’s portrait,
The scent pulls me,
mind and body back to the reality
That presently exists:
My grandparents,
all 4,
have passed on,
To the other side;
And yet the viel between us
is so very thin,
In moments when I smell the peonies again,
Profound fragrance
Of flowers planted
by my mother’s mother,
Her spirit leads the others to,
and me to them,
To feel them
Still,
In the space between.
Yellow-faced dandelions push up
Obstinate to the cold that still hangs in air
That promises and serves frost still,
To dew drops and windowpanes,
Spring is here,
In an in-between, limbo of seasons,
Summer and winter, each hedging for the bigger presence,
This is the nature of the season,
Spring—mediator between hot and cold,
Light and dark
On this segment of the wheel of year,
All determined by the closeness
And felt warmth of one star.
I miss walking through the gardens,
I took for granted all the fragile beauty that laid right within my step,
I miss the sight of blossoms full in springtime,
Displaying and reminding of my own fertility,
I miss the smell of fresh aromatic flowers,
eagerly hinting to be held gently and brought closer,
I miss the closeness to flora that made me feel ethereal, beautiful,
Otherworldly as I walked through this domain of sensual beauty.
She of Letters 