If the
circumstances are just so - the petal will emerge, silken thin and pure, and
then another and again, folding over each other in buttery perfection. A
softness so exquisitely vulnerable in its own tiny velvet you cannot help but
stare with a child's eyes, understanding softness for the first time each time,
shocked into stillness by how delicate the tender envelope.
And yet how
strong the lips from which the bloom mysteriously erupts , splashing new
colours from the inside out , spitting its heady potion potently to the sky
towards which it turns an eager face. Breathing the murk of this seductive
mist, we gaze on, in a trance, in wonder at what is so clearly aspirational and
yet already perfect. We are suspended breathless on the precipice of reaching
even higher or waiting through that final flourish of the head before death
begins.
Does the
flower know we marvel at its beauty ? Does it know that, enchanted by its
beauty of behavior and touched by its mere attempt at reproduction we are moved
to try to reproduce it ourselves, obsessed with capturing some aspect, any
aspect! And does it realize that we are
forced in vain to watch as it lays itself bare and open before the sun in pure
surrender and, unable to interfere, we are as crushed as its own neck lies
defeated when, inevitably the fleeting beauty we hold so dear will fall to its
cloudy death, faded, withered, gone.
No comments:
Post a Comment