Send the Flowers While They are Still Fresh

I hope you live a life you’re proud of

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I stop to check again if the shimmering robes fluttering in the wind are mine or borrowed lines.

The brilliance of these renditions, the exotic linings and enticing hooks here and there blow me away.

An adept curator, one less introspective, would take in the radiance of the works and admit —  there’s real talent shining forth.

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It will be arrogance or evidence of the absence of humility to look at one’s own work and rate them so high.

Still the cure for ignorance prescribed by sages begins with Man, know thyself

I know it’s narcissism to look in the mirror to admire one’s own face,

it’s still narcissism to expect others to admire one,

but I deserve a break when the world is too busy doing its own thing to bother about me.

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I can understand the lizard that leaped down from the iroko and patted its own back,

the trumpeter that blew his instrument in his own honor lest others blow the wrong tune

In the dark, I know car headlamps, no matter how bright, show not the driver,

So I’ve to switch on the roof lights of my car

to see the beautiful interiors and my smart dressing

and behold in the inner mirrors my well-groomed face and then step out,

even if no one notices, happy with who I am.

No, you can’t! It’s not your place to make such observations when there should be more serious matters on your mind.

You leave it to others to do when they’ve time to come round to it, and if what you have is that good, its brilliance will show.

But my audacity streams from clear authenticity, and my strength purrs from vulnerabilities in every pore

If the outing is good, I should know and so declare for it’s sham modesty,

sheer intellectual dishonesty to deny what’s glaring because we’re privy to its source.

I don’t need a mirror to see the rings on my fingers and we don’t tell the blind how salty the sauce is

when the tongue that counts his teeth knows how to taste the soup

With that said I’ve forwarded my address again so you could send my flowers while they are still fresh,

before they lose their fragrance, before my hands get too weak to arrange them in a vase

Photo by Lucia Macedo on Unsplash

Oh, how sweet the fingers smell weaving the petals on the potted portals

I’ll choose for myself and sit back to adore.

So my order is clear: bouquets, not wreaths

Are you still there —  or did I lose you again in my wandering thoughts?

If my pace is too fast for you to catch up, I could slow it down, hoping I don’t lose the rhymes of the rhythm

But please hurry up, before we miss the blossoms that sleep when the evening sun slips

Photo by Natasha Bhogal on Unsplash

People tend to feel happy when spring arrives, especially after a cold winter. When spring begins, however, cannot be pinpointed to one particular moment. There is no one day that clearly marks when winter ends and spring begins. Spring hides inside winter. We notice it emerging with our eyes, our skin, and other senses. We find it in new buds, a comfortable breeze, and the warmth of the sun. It exists alongside winter. — Toshikazu Kawaguchi

‘There are questions I can’t answer. I cannot tell you how you will survive without me. I cannot tell you how to mourn me. I cannot convince you to not feel guilty if you forget the anniversary of my death, or if you realize days or weeks or months have gone by without thinking about me. I just want you to live.’ — Adam Silvera

We all have cracks and tears and shattered glass within our souls. Some have more than others. We do not wish to seek one who has none; but we wish to find the one who can say “look at me, look at this.” We wish to find the one who sees every bit of broken glass and who will put those pieces into the palms of our hands and say “please keep them.” And we wish to be that kind of person, too. This is how it should be. — C. JoyBell C.

“For what it’s worth, it’s never too late to be whoever you want to be. I hope you live a life you’re proud of and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start over.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald