Crisp, worked to defeat laboredness–fragile plucked, moist, half-raised cold, precise, touching
From the petal’s edge a line starts that being of steel infinitely fine, infinitely rigid penetrates the Milky Way without contact–lifting from it–neither hanging nor pushing–
The fragility of the flower unbruised penetrates space ~William Carlos Williams from Spring and All (1923)
It is common to look for love only inside the heart of things, pulsing front and center as both showpiece and show off. We think of love reverberating from deep within, loud enough for all the world to hear and know it is so.
But as I advance on life’s road, I have found the love that matters lies quietly waiting at the periphery of our hearts, so fragile and easily torn as a petal – clinging to the edges of our lives barely holding on through storms and trials.
This love remains ever-present , both protects and cherishes, fed by fine little veins which branch out from the center of the universe to the tender margins of infinity.
It is on that delicate edge of forever we dwell, waiting to be fed and trembling with anticipation.
Tis May; and yet the March flower Dandelion Is still in bloom among the emerald grass, Shining like guineas with the sun’s warm eye on– We almost think they are gold as we pass, Or fallen stars in a green sea of grass. They shine in fields, or waste grounds near the town. They closed like painter’s brush when even was. At length they turn to nothing else but down, While the rude winds blow off each shadowy crown.
In the meadow-grass
The innocent white daisies blow,
The dandelion plume doth pass
Vaguely to and fro, –
The unquiet spirit of a flower That hath too brief an hour. ~Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz
All people are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field; the grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of the Lord endures forever.
And this is the word that was preached to you. 1Peter 1:24-25
Like a seed released when buffeted,
or simply blown aloft at the moment of ripeness,
may we be the unquiet flower spirit
carrying your Word on fragile wings
to far corners and hidden places;
settling softly, taking root
wherever your breath takes us.
Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing. ~Scout Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
How can I appreciate something
so constant and reliable,
like breathing the next breath,
it never registers
in my consciousness
until the moment
it might be rent asunder,
as delicate and transitory as a web
hanging heavy with evening frost?
the breath I rely on
for my very existence
is not a given,
it then becomes
the most precious thing of all.
For our ephemeral fragility on this earth,
for our dependency on our Maker,
who, solid as a mountain,
gives us our next breath,
I am truly and forever