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.