An eye for flowers
A month ago it's a flower bud that catches my eye-- nearly hidden in its sheath, delicately veined pink on pink, only two blocks from my front door. My visits to this flower bud become a daily meditation in footsteps and joy and slow progress.
Astonishingly slow. The bud nods and dips and stretches long. A second bud and soon three, five, six - a gluttony of excess to please me as I arrive day after day without any reward of flower. My feet stammer in confusion, impatient to turn from here and walk quickly toward tomorrow's update; and simultaneously without any desire to break this moment of intense contentment.
When I do walk away it's with joy in my heart and the curiosity of tomorrow bubbling in my fingers and the corners of my mouth.
Finally there begins a gradual, gentle opening of petals. Such restraint! I, on the other hand, probe daily, is this it? Flower, have you yawned and stretched into the full expression of your pose? The flower is partially closed and gazes demurely, parallel to the earth. There is something captivating about that pose, part lily, part orchid. I stand by the flower, my daily expectations hanging uselessly beside me, amazed that I continue to bring them and amazed that a solitary flower can so deeply challenge me.
It's tomorrow again and that flower-seeking smile pushes forth as I hurry the last 50 feet.
Except,
