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Posts Tagged ‘blossom’

Like the Peony


 
Like the peony that opens
and opens and opens,
this is how I want to meet life—
surviving the cold
then returning to bloom
again. Again.
That vibrant. That many-petaled.
Embarrassingly fulsome,
as if life just can’t
get enough of itself.
I know how winter ravages.
Sounds like a metaphor?
Truth is life cuts you to the ground
and you lose all but the roots.
Sometimes those, too.
How is it, then, comes
the chance to bloom again,
to be less master of life,
and more servant
to the life that pushes through.
I want to be fluent in blooming.
I want to trust the possibility
of sweet spring perfume
as much as I trust
the inevitability of frost.
I am so grateful for beauty,
albeit brief,
for the chance to be naked,
tender, soft.
 
 *

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Broken,
bare-hearted
naked in the catastrophe,
I smell it,
the sweet perfume
of apricot blossoms
wafting across
the leafless world.

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You blossom because of other people.
            —Desmond Tutu


Because of you,
I know heady,
honeyed perfume,
I know countless
petals, the flutter,
the thrill in opening—
because of you,
this long-stemmed
laughter, this
unashamed blush.
Because you
are sunflower,
cosmos, hyacinth,
I am iris, lavender,
larkspur.
I am only me
because of you,
and the gift of you
is so beautiful,
even in this time
of sorrow, I am
lily splayed wide,
white peony, red poppy,
I am blooming wild
with the beauty
given to you.

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inspired by Almond Blossom by Vincent van Gogh and music by Kayleen Asbo by the same name

I want to hang a painting
of almond blossoms
above your bed
so when you wake
the first thing you see
are delicate white petals
and a sky a thousand shades of blue.
I want you to wake every morning
into an ever-emerging sense of spring—
wake into sunshine,
wake to a world of splendor
and extravagant blossoming.
 
Of course, the fall.
Of course, the struggle.
Of course, the difficult days.
And of course, the almond blossoms,
painted in creams, pinks and greens
each one an insistent grace note
that lingers beyond its season,
promising something improbable
and utterly necessary,
like ever-blooming beauty,
like the light and airy perfume of hope.

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One Impermanence

inside each perfect blossom

hides the ache

for more just

one more

perfect blossom

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Who Can Say?

Already the body
is dawn. Before
the eastern glow. Before

the edges of darkness
give up any of their darkness.
It is not that we deserve it,

this light. It is just
that here it is,
inside us, continuing

to grow, the way
plumeria seem to grow
on what looks like dead wood.

But grow they do, with
all that perfume, too,
and all that milky white.

Who can say how
such beauty comes
from what looks

lifeless? But it does.
Your blossoming,
my blossoming.

Crazy how light
it can be,
this darkness.

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Look what happens
given warmth
given light—

deep fields of shining bloom

and every moment
is
forever

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