Flower child

Yeah, that's me.  I was (and still am) that little kid you see skipping around the park, moving from one brightly colored flower to the next like a little hummingbird, pausing to admire the myriad of colors and buttery, wispy petals that the sunshine so thoughtfully pulled out of hiding, even if only for a short time.  And today, my five-year old self came out to play in Washington Park—ironically, still located in Portland.  I needed a little blossoming love in my life, and thankfully, spring has delivered!

                             

        And because I'm a sucker for poetry. . .

        7.

        Even Now
        I remember something

        the way a flower
        in a jar of water

        remembers its life
        in the perfect garden

        the way a flower
        in a jar of water

        steadies itself
        remembering itself

        long ago
        the plunging roots

        the gravel the rain
        the glossy stem

        the wings of the leaves
        the swords of the leaves

        rising and clashing
        for the rose of the sun

        the salt of the stars
        the crown of the wine

        the beds of the clouds
        the blue dream

        the unbreakable circle.


        8.

        The poem is not the world.
        It isn't even the first page of the world.

        But the poem wants to flower, like a flower
        It knows that much.

        It wants to open itself,
        like the door of a little temple,
        so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
        and less yourself than part of everything.

—from Mary Oliver's collection of poems titled The Leaf And the Cloud