It is an easterly wind that blows this morning,
a harbinger of storms from the sea,
slow and inevitable, it comes.
Outside, the flowers bloom defiantly.
It is not their first storm.
It will not be their last.
Each one causes them to dance differently,
to bend and twist and ruffle like laundry on the line,
and return to a semblance of themselves.
A point comes, when they can no longer hang on
as the winds rage.
All of us break, eventually.
But seasons come again,
and with each one, a new fragile beauty,
waiting for it’s moment to dance.
About this poem
Life is a messy thing. At least mine often is. But beauty remains, enough to get lost in it. And that is one of life’s saving graces.
The picture was taken in my backyard. Nothing remarkable in it, except how many storms this particular flower has survived.