So as flowers, words offer color. Sometimes, an unexpected brightness as in the ubiquitous nasturtium. Words echo their roots, leaves, flowers, fruit, seeds. No doubt, nasturtium remembers where it comes from -- the spot from which picked.
From where the poem picked, you ask?
H/ cont.
ReplyDeleteAnd often it seemed in the beginning of the day
she too was between two worlds, in two places.
There was the fragrance of the flowers she collected
each morning, and the lifting of that in the afternoon.
Distant trains summoned her attention
and she remembered her friend in another land
When would they see each other again,
what would they have to say about their lives?