Staring, gazing, enchanted by texture and aroma, clutched and carried by dirt filled nails.
Precious Pink petals and wild white flowers; I would rather a vase of hand picked weeds, than an arrangement of pricey unthoughtful deeds.
Fresh flower sap running down my hands; I bury my nose in and breathe so deep. So pleasing and delightful, far better than expensive perfume, a gift plucked to light up a soul and fill it to the brim and above
Such love shall be on display I say, a frame, a jar, no… a vase
The vase in the corner has grown quiet with dust, falling in slow motion to the ground the dust a reminder to follow suit. I paused, and let my mind like dust, wander in the sunlight
A vase, like a heart can hold many things, darling you are the vase and you choose the life inside it you bring.
With water you bring to life a colour, a flower, a fragrance, like friends and lovers the people of colour; a complimentary bouquet of assorted flora
Do not fret when it’s colours fade, the petals fall or the water is brown with mould. For like a flower given life for a time, is a season of life becoming grand before it grows old
Forget me not it says with it’s last breath, my life, my lessons, and most importantly the joy before death.
Clean and filled with fresh water, I cut the stems, so like straws they may drink for what life they have yet to give. Blossoming and bountiful in a frail, fragile, simple glass vase, not worthy to behold such beauty, yet anything more I fear would take away from the beauty within
I pondered, If a flower only knows it has a few days or a few weeks at best of life, why choose to live? Yet, it chooses to bloom, colour and celebrate all it can give, instead of thinking upon a drooping, colourless, scentless life of strife.
Perhaps like the simple glass vase is our bodies, carrying and beholding a heart and mind full of an arrangement of flowers ready to grow and be EXACTLY their colour and scent, no holding back…
From the odd colours, the grouping and the uneven stems, they stand encased in the vase, a vibrant memoire of the one who so loved to pick them, and now a reminder of seasons, my body the vase, the flowers and beauty within.