she did not know where to go
feel the call of the wind that touches his wings
she is alone
no one expected it
they prefer butterflies
"is there a place for me?"
she asked a flower that she had come to
she felt uncomfortable being there
she felt it was not his place
if she had to die, she would
there was no hope for her
Flowers on the ground for my lover
Once were blooming in the garden
From now it’ll be with her
There you’re lying in the dirt
The hands to wipe the tears
The laugh I love to hear
The smile so bright to cheer
The soul to lose, I fear
I know you’re near
And will always be here
Though I’ve lost you in this world.
Humans, by nature, are creatures of the present.
We live in the now.
And maybe your now was 4 years ago before she died,
And maybe your now is a visionary hope of days yet to come.
Whatever the case, I've had a beautiful thought, or better said, a bit of happy revelation;
The seed never sees the flower.
If you had met me 3 years ago, you'd have a vastly different experience than if you met me today.
Then, my countenance bore the look of a fox lily seed bulb, or rather, a soiled scrotum with a shriveled pink petal of hope and thick tendrils of pity, like some kind of monster bug that got lost while looking for where the wild things went.
A rather pathetic sight, coupled with the stench drug abuse and swelling cresendos of loneliness.
Back then I lived in the shadows of regret, and walked on a leash with a noose as my collar, made tame by the demon to whom she sold my soul: Depression.
I drowned my sorrows in booze and stifled it with the fragrance of dank weed.
My head hung lose on my shoulders, my shoulders slumped hopelessly over my body, and I had an distinct shroud of gloom.
I wanted to die.
But as those long and lonely hours drew out into dreary September days, and on to weeks,
I began to blossom.
Thick tendrils of pity took root in the rich soils of friends in need and grew into powerful roots of compassion, transcending years and onwards to a lifetime.
The scrotum actually became a heart.
Strong and bold, and inscribed with the scars of every story.
And that little, shriveled petal?
It blossomed into a steadfast and fiery fox tail lily, and when the sun hits it at just the right angle, it almost looks like the burning flame of invigorating life.
And there I stand, stalwart and garish amidst the rolling hills of our very own pale blue dot, looking back on the path that lead me here, simply by letting time pass and enduring the onslaught of change.
And I remembered
The seed never saw the flower.
In Grandma’s garden,
the sun has swum to the middle of the sky,
and sits amongst smudges of white.
Relaxing, its breathes heat onto the grass,
which bathes until it is crisp.
A warm breeze caresses the treetops,
their leaves gently swaying to the rhythm of July.
As the evening draws in,
the sun floats down like a deflated balloon,
and the moon rises proudly to welcome the night,
where crickets begin to chirp and chatter,
under its pearly white light.
The pebbles on the deck start to cool
after cooking in the rays of the fourteen-hour day.
The rest of the garden is patient and still
as it waits for the sun to greet it again.
In Grandma’s garden,
the sun is running late to rise,
cautiously poking its head into cloud-stained skies.
The trees, desperate for their sap not to slow,
are set alight by rebellious leaves before they undress.
A shower of crisp brown parachutes fall,
a carpet of copper awaiting them all.
Night sends up her pale crescent moon,
breathing in the smell of decay.
It spills a chilly mist over the garden,
a spell to send nature fast asleep,
getting harder each day from which to wake.
In Grandma’s garden,
the sun has overslept.
The robin’s eight o’clock call drags it from its slumber
as it trudges through the thick cloud plastered above.
Skeletons of trees stand lonely,
no leaves to cover their timbered bones.
They reach up towards the faded sun,
hiding within sombre grey skies.
Droplets of dew dangle from the grass like crystal baubles,
and before you know it, the sun is yawning once more.
The night arrives,
its icy breath crisping the grass.
The wind whistles a sheet of frost onto the garden,
as nature is left to shiver and shake.
The sun rises curiously today,
welcomed by Grandma’s garden,
proudly clothed in a robe of green.
It no longer wakes in a lonely silence,
but is instead greeted by a chorus of new life.
Bitter frost is replaced with a sweet dew,
and the soil is free to breath once more.
Drowsy flowers yawn as they come to attention,
their heads soaking up the sun’s new-born rays.
The old oak whistles to the wind’s new tune,
making the daffodils stand-up and swoon.
The sun kisses the clouds as it begins to pour,
tears of joy for Grandma’s garden,
alive and flourishing once more.