Silent, quiet, death
There you hang
No one notieces
No longer fragrant
But not defining
You were once soft
You were once fragrant
Crying your pain
Sharing your dying petals
Searching for water
You hang there in defiance
“Remember” you say
“Remember when” you say
“Remember when the day”
You say “the day”
As if one silent, death defining moment
The wall flower wants to live on
The dead, hanging petals cling
Cling to the once vibrant stem
Upside down they cling
–written by yours truly this difficult day
The past month has been hard. While the world buzzes around me with activity in preparation. I feel more like a plucked flower. Everyone is busy with something. Trying to stay busy, but never accomplishing any thing, well, just does not amount to anything.
Doing instead of being.
Being instead of doing.
Struggling to write something. I have nearly half a dozen blog drafts and nothing o show for them. The finishing feels like grasping thorny rose bushes. My mind just cannot seem to wrap itself around a complete thought.
Tonight my decision not to cry myself to sleep, resulted in returning to the living room where these hanging flowers on the wall greeted me as I sat in my chair.
In the olden days, a “wall flower” was the girl at the dances that no one ever danced with. I can relate somewhat, as I have not danced with someone on a dance floor more than a hand full of times. I relate to the one sitting in the corner watching the whole world go on dancing having a great time and never really noticing the wall flower.
This “feeling” has happened to me so many times that seeing myself tied up with a ribbon and hanging from some nail on the wall… yeah, you get the picture.
Going blind has it’s defining moments.
Today was one of them for me.
Sitting in a crowded room full of gathered bouquets, who would chose the dried petals over all of the one’s in the vases, or on the bushes, or in the planters? Yet here I am in the world of fragrant flowers, drying up. Clinging to the stem, yet receiving no water. No more life giving, fragrant potions.
The feelings are hard to explain. They are difficult to grasp. The tears come way to easily sometimes. Recognizing the death of a certain way of doing things. Defining myself as that blind lady over there. Some things are best put into poetry.
Now I’ll go cry myself to sleep.
I’ll crush some old rose petals hanging on some nail on the wall. And be mad at myself for not remembering where they came from.