To a flower-bloom in the garden a slow, soft independence, this blooming grace that smiles in the face of a withering so certain, so prescribed immense. unscheming. quiet. extraordinary immortal in the memory of you always flowering. always describing. always affecting like a thought from naught journeying to its fullness of clarity like musty old books, like poems, like songs like all things that rouse you, that make you come alive then you see. you see that there is so much you haven’t yet experienced. and that is enough to want a life of gratitude and hope to hold on to be quietly adamant and full before that final fall
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