The Jacaranda Rain

The purple petals cried and I fell, worshipful of the mourning and the morning to come. There is a season for everything, and I suppose this one is for growth; realization that I am but the one in the infinite, sordid bloom.

The wind lifted the branches heavy with bushels of flowers, dropped some, then nodded off to sleep.


The Pink Rose

Now I am ready to confront love. What is it but the hue so dreamy, framed by lights and lack of light to complete each delicate petal?

The outermost petal threatened to fall, my muse drifted in the wind, hanging by a tangent. Despite the tug and pull, the hopes and hurts, I know the outer shells would go only when the most tender heart is ready to face the world.

My love is also a rose that time my curse, though opposite: for when the last petal struck the floor I shall be liberated, strengthened since even the unrequited pains cannot quiver in the wind and is no more.

The White Rose

They say the white rose is a symbol of innocence.

It’s clear how that works. The absence of color supposedly equates innocence…then does that mean colors — the elements so endearing in my heart, the only things that framed and shaped my world — is a symbol of contamination?

I say, the white rose is a symbol of naivety.
Surrounded by aphids thirsty for sweetness, a selfish multitude draining the life force of the dearest white rose. It has thorns, yes, but what is a thorn that pricks only my hand as I tried to squish the bloodsuckers against the particles that multiplied and covered all pores regardless?
So blind, so naive: that is the white rose, untainted by the colors of life that is good and splendid.

The Yellow Rose

They say the yellow rose is a symbol of friendship.

I see it, I guess, a drop of sunlight deciding to stay with the petals it befriended until one of them wither. I see it.

I see the grass, the mints, the weeds, whose brethren lay growing and rotting in the same heave. Yet, there it was, my friend, mounted on the pedestal of thorns, leaves still fresh, stem tinted orange from its brilliant light. I see the fibers, its blood vessels or arteries: doth the blood run away or back? The little rose rising beyond the overgrowth, shades brighter than any princess’s dress.

Some tried to paint my rose pink, and I was flattered by the effort, but realized the gold was much better than the indecisive hue. So I detested it, so I see it still: the yellow rose live for others more deserving.

Some joined me in my fellowship amongst the grounds of the rose. My spirit rose to meet their song, their words, their love: all I don’t deserve, I thought. At last, I thought, I’ve found my home. Then my eyes went adrift to catch the sun still setting soon.

The songs have numbered days, and so do my rose.

I know that, remembered the very first rule, that all that’s gold won’t stay. There’s no glass jar that can defend from time: my rose, one day, would also burn, be frayed and decay.

But would my mind and memory, armed with my pen and ink, forever etch the rose in prose, so least my hand remember?

Even if my hand only remember the pains, that would be enough.