Spring is heremy azaleas tell me so
and will do so for
a few more weeks
when they go
the flowers pink and red
and what remains
is just green
I will wonder
why them
so beautiful
why must they go
and I am still here
these are the things
I do not understand
and fear
never will
beauty they bring
not an ill word
nor wayward glance
though their days be short
for a few brief weeks
rain or shine
they open to the world
and wave their hues
bright as fresh paint
tender as rice paper
they ask for nothing
while giving everything
I feel honored
to have known them
and I imagine
if they could speak
what they would say;
perhaps, nothing,
or, perhaps that life
is in service
in giving;
that
I imagine
is what they might say
but then again
perhaps
they already
have
7 comments:
Thank you for finding me, as it has enabled me to find you! I am liking your words and when time is more my own I will return to this place, your place and read you some more.
SarahA, I feel fortunate to have found you and I've enjoyed your poetry. Welcome to DT. Hope to see you around again. :-)
Lovely, lovely, lovely.
I have azaleas that bloom again later. I think though that I sacrifice the full glory of spring to get the second bloom. Still, they are blooming now and they are beautiful, if less so than some of my others.
*the naked gardener :P
W, your naked gardener can grace my blog anytime. If you need some help naked gardening, let know. I'm pretty good with a hose. :-)
Catapulted into awe by the image.
Soaked and rolled therein by the words. From the colourful beginnings to the enlightened end, it is days now since I read this the first time and still those blooms that you describe, boldly, in undivided colour, are forming, growing in my imagination. There is a wonderful circular motion to this poem, parallel rotations, of seasons in nature with us being a part of that, of time and our differing journeys, joined at times for longer periods, at times for just a moment or a season. The rhyme and reason of what and who and why not ours to know, and though you are speaking of flowers, I thought of what we refer to as the natural order, parents before children, and how this isn't always the case. A more appropriate comment, though, I would write you a long passage on the comparison within this poem, would be fairness and the difficulty that can arise sometimes in understanding why blessings sometimes seem to be bestowed on the seemingly less deserving and vice versa. Profound and beautiful on many levels, your words on the act of giving most of all and that, this is the impression one is left with, that it was remembered anew that each flower has a place, a reason and a beauty, not always known, but giving needs no reward. Again, I have moved in an entirely different direction than I intended when I first began this comment, and so to conclude, quickly since my internet connection cuts out continuously these last couple of days, for every reason you found for those flowers to remain, for every appreciative thing that you said about them, a hundred could be found of you. So lovely a poem, the gift that goes on wowing.
Ah, Spring flowers!
They bloom shortly, knowing the winds and the forces shall efface them soon, but still they have courage to bloom , to live their life fully in fragrance of their short lives...
Mona, I could hug you for the way you see, for the way you write, for the way I feel you live inside my head. Beautiful. :-)
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