Flowers (for Tara)

Sometimes breezes visit the outdoor flowers and gently guide the petals this way or that. Red, blue, orange yellow. A bird in the rafters watches everything. Its head moves this way and that almost frantically but that’s just how it is built. Long steel rafters that support baskets and who made them all? If you walk through there it is another world. A great atmosphere for a poet or photographer. Clear honest light. Hope inspiration even love. The soil and dirt and root systems. The signs, such as, WATER WHEN DRY. Industrial grade hoses and many racks waiting for display.

But, just sometimes, irrigation systems. The world finally begins again after the longest worst winter. The old discerning gardener looks at the wares. The casual browser also. Flowers,- a universal language. There is a large hill on the outskirts of town, and below, a pond. Perhaps on that hill, alone, one of those blue or purple wildflowers have bloomed. That same breeze teases its petals to the side. There is warmth from the sun. Warmth from the new spring. The town had grown and was bursting at the seams. Many selfish souls lived there. Some good ones though. But the flowers often better than even the good souls. In the heavens they say, are often fields and fields of flowers and they often include colours not even known to the earth. Plus, many say the flowers are alive more than they are here- quite conscious. Ah look at the earth flowers for gardens and the feral ones too, whist thinking of the astral planes and what whimsical wondrous ones might live there.