Georgia O’Keefe clouds overhead and a symphonic movement of yellow peppering the hillsides now. The flowers all disappeared for a spell, and miraculously, they’re back in full song. The sunflowers are early adapters. They’ve all sprung up in grand, extended families in the deepest arteries of the flood damage.
And this is the only way I know to get high anymore.
"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."
You never wake up and say, “I can’t. I don’t feel like it.”
I wait with baited breath for you all year, and wish you could last for all my days. But I’m grateful that you’re too wild to be plucked and left to wilt in a water-filled, glass grave. I watch in wonder as you unfurl your skirts, bow to the wind, and slowly waltz alongside the month of May, exiting stage left as the mercury rises in June.
Color visits the floodplain.
Life always springs forth.
"We turn our backs on nature; we are ashamed of beauty. Our wretched tragedies have a smell of the office clinging to them, and the blood that trickles from them is the color of printer’s ink."
"Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw at it still."
-Henry David Thoreau