“I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.” – Edna St. Vincent Millay, an excerpt from ‘Afternoon on a Hill’
An end to ardour. When the dying death of last light was beautiful and all things fade like the sun. The roses are in their swollen bloom, the color of dusk. There’s a heat to it. A heat that comes with the end of things. I pluck a rose and feel it. Feel the bloom, know the bloom, I am the bloom. And then it withers and I feel that too. The rose and I know much of withering. For I withered once, once in December. I’ve always thought there are certain blossoming’s that wild things must know, just as there are certain burnings the body must endure. How flowers understand their fated end. The end that comes from being plucked, loved, and cherished. I wonder how true that is for us too. But blossoming, blossoming is the sole thing for which we were built.