Paper Petals

People write about how the flowers wilts too fast,

that nothing beautiful are meant to last. Yet we

still cut them from the stem, trap them in a vase

from the worlds avast. I heard those poems

condemning mankind’s woe against nature, felt

the heat and pressure and water rising until

my mind drown in guilt and passive helplessness.

So, when I saw it sitting in the glass of water amidst

homely comforts I almost cried. It started as a bud,

content with what it was given: a mere sip and it

blooms, stretched towards the universe to scream

beauty and faith and love in brilliant pinks. Then,

it reached its greatest.

It grew limper, each petal losing the fight to gravity,

and I lost to the gravity of the situation, trapped by

the symbols and metaphors I used to trip myself on

my way to the table. I made it before the first petal

dropped into the water, now a murky mess with a

hint of pink only visible if I pretend that I remember.

I caught a petal, and tried to preserve it, searched up

ways to save the shades and beauty, sing to to it with

optimism to fight inevitability, and dried and wrinkled

the colors somehow remained. The only question if

it was merely a memory and if the petal in my hand

was just painted paper.


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.


What did Van Gogh see with those flowers in their violent violet petals? Did he, too, saw the broad brushstrokes of God and the fine tips of the brushes in each petal? Every time the season comes around my mother would spare three to four dollars to buy a bouquet of her favorite flowers, setting them in a glass vase that looked as though they are about to outgrow.

I would watch, then, the faint blue buds wrapped in green casts emerging from their cocoon in a slow procession almost like a demonstration where the protesters demanded attention with colorful signs and catchy, rallying cries.

What are the cries of these irises, then? That, all of mankind would stop staring? That novice writers would stop making metaphysical personifications, imagining the thoughts of flowers with pretty colors?

I continue to listen, watch, and wait for the blue flowers to leave its green home to tell me their story.