Published in Inspired by Tagore
The Wild Spirea petals have blown away again. I suppose I should expect it, except it, that it will inevitably happen every time there is a breeze. I can’t though. Not yet. That corner of the room is sheltered from the wind that sneaks in through the gap in the window. I can’t get the old windows to completely close anymore. I’ve asked to have it fixed, but no one’s come to repair it. It wouldn’t matter anyway. The breeze would sneak in under a door or through gaps in the floorboards, flying straight into the corner and picking up the hundreds of parachute petals off the flowers and whisking them away. Leaving only bare stems standing reaching out of the pot. Longing after the petals they have lost to the wind. Wishing they were whisked away too. Instead they are stuck. Rooted to the spot I planted them in. Stuck in the pot on the chair in the smallest corner of the room.
I suppose that is the nature of flowers. You nurture them and love them and they grow and give you joy. Then something exciting, exhilarating comes past and sweeps them away. One breath from mother earth and the petals are gone.
Of course new petals form, hearts mend, only for the cycle to begin all over again.
For the cycle to start again though, there must be a stem in the pot. What happens when the stem walks out the door, carried away on an enticing breeze? Leaving me with just an empty pot in the corner of the room to stare at.
I would ask for still more, if I had the sky with all it’s stars, and the world with it’s endless riches; but I would be content with the smallest corner of this earth if only she were mine.