Flowers on Sunday Unbeknownst

What else is there but risk?  I have my reasons for the ones I take.  And if you know the outcome, technically that is A Safe Bet and not a risk at all.  So you don’t get any credit for trying in those circumstances.

But then the silence comes.  The answer that reminds me I wasn’t sure at all when I set out.  And in that empty mirror, I recognize how much stronger the hope was than I had admitted.  See that the words carried me to an unknown audience, my questions written on a scrap of paper, picked up by a sudden gust of wind and whirled beyond my grasp. There’s no way I can chase them back into the safety of my pocket.  Those little kites have sailed.

The hardest answer came when I felt so sure of the other heart.  That is how risk is.  Sometimes you don’t even know it’s there.

That silence did not yield, and it reminded me how to lose.

This is the way to have what you have.  At least, as far as I can tell.

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Flowers on Sunday Slowly

Spring is still waiting in the wings.  Snow drops have erupted between the spent leaves and the tangles of last year’s grass, their nodding bells buzzing with bees – yes, bees – making the most of these early delicacies.  And the tender strands of witchhazel blossoms have burst along the branches, more like ribbons than petals, and unexpectedly fragrant in the snow-cold air.

I’m still pretty tired most of the time.  Daunted, if that can be said.  All the little variables that can’t be decided or purchased.  Or folded and stored, for that matter. I feel like my brain and nerves went through a terrible storm in a tiny little dingy.  And even though we’ve reach dry land, my legs are still trembling.

These days, I’m never sure about the pictures.  I think I’m getting somewhere – but I find I’ve ended up somewhere else.  Maybe that’s no surprise.  I haven’t landed quite yet.


Subscribe to what is beautiful remains

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Flowers on Sunday for Us

Fifty eight times around the sun, but it doesn’t seem like any time has passed, does it?

We came here together, and that’s certain – our singular selves, but two birds of a feather.  Hearts full of April flowers, no doubt about it, and bluebirds in the backyard.  And lucky beyond all good fortune to have each other – your fierce bravery, determined to walk first, and get on with the things you wanted. And me – charmingly indolent and prone to distraction, needing just five more minutes to watch the clouds drift along, and then maybe a snack.

No power in the ‘Verse can stop us.

Happy birthday my dearest dear – with all the love my heart can hold.

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Flowers on Sunday Tonight

Daffodils for you, my dear, whereever you are sleeping and dreaming and asking, “What is this joy?” Joy that comes with tears for the ache of being alive, for facing the hurricane force that blows through us unrelenting.  We open our windows, and bend and break and somehow we stand.  And before we know it the storm clears, and we come to rest.

In all your misdeeds – don’t you want to be forgiven?  In all your disappoinments – don’t you want to find hope?  In all your forgetting, don’t you want to remember the drift of soft voices from the warm lighted living room, sing-songs you try to follow from the groggy realm of Bedtime. Grown up voices turning the world over and over with their mystifying certainty, until for once you know everything will turn out alright?

Today the sky was hard, clear blue, full of sunshine that didn’t warm away the cold.  A beautiful day, like the day we last spent together getting tea, I think, and certainly at the antique mall.  Tomorrow we are apart for the first and inevitable final time, and the clock of my year resets.

But today we are always together.  I am here because of you, and you are here for me.

Don’t you want to be forgiven, too?

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Flowers on Sunday Still

The early morning light was very friendly, and I am learning a new thing or so about what I am doing (both flowers and camera) which makes for an adventure, and love.

I try to add my significant others and create a proper still life. The kissing couple, the curious hound, the plump bluebird.  Each figurine plainly stating my wish within the frame.  Sweet dimestore talisman for the life I want and dream of.

But the open space always wins.

Open, but not empty.  Containing the light and everything else that might be there.  Room to imagine your own significant others, or just think about how it is to have flowers on your table and notice the sunlight pooling on an old tablecloth, and take another sip of tea.

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Flowers on Sunday Today

Filled up the house with fresh air from the spring day, and all the petals fluttered in delight.

It can’t be helped.  The sunshine reminded me of you, and I hoped you remembered, too.  I’m here on Sunday, and the windows are open.

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Flowers on Sunday and Look

I am wondering, “What comes next?”  I have our sweetness again, an unexpected blessing of saying goodbye more irrevocably. Free, but not with you. I don’t even try to determine which side of that choice left the greater impact.

There are still plenty of chains to break.  My indoctrination into hopelessness – as a way of appearing unflinching and honest – was pretty air tight.  There are some things I wonder if I can ever believe are possible.

But I’m starting.  Starting in a small place, that got broken entirely out of love and hope. If I can decide for myself what to make of this inner reckoning, I can decide when the next thing comes along.

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Flowers on Sunday and Now

I decided that I had cried enough – and that is something I get to decide.  I don’t know anymore than I did – but I found out what I needed to, and you filled in the sweetest, hardest spots.

So now, not knowing anything, I start again.

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Flowers on Sunday All Along

I hope today went ok, and you found some freedom, too – from making the unsaid things into words that at least two people can share.  Plus – made you laugh.

And I hope you felt inside your heart all the hearts that have flourished in the shine of your beautiful smile – including mine.

Thank you, honey.  Thank you.

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Flowers on Sunday Miss You

Godammit, it may be I have reached the part
where I need Bukowski to map the ordinary
in long       meandering      lines destined for
Nick Drake on the radio even though
the sun is shining on West Broadway exiting past the World Buffet parking lot gray
You can’t mistake the bells that ring inside that chord,
its full texture, and open.
The coffee medicinal to teach us     we can take the bitter in
The sliced almonds’ flavored with white petals against a blue sky
their sharp edges breaking the cool, thin milk.
And Willie Nelson, so help me god, wavering on his tightrope
Tipping tipping almost into the chasm between the worlds.
He has no reason not to say it anymore.

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