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.