old poetry on a new shore
What a great and humble flower. Its small, tike-like stature would have surely hid it from my view, if it wasn’t for its magnificent luminance. Its color is dusk, that hue created when the sun is setting and its rays are hitting the last of the visible sky before finally going under the horizon. This is only accentuated by its tiny yellow center. The effect would be similar to a rayless sun caught in the midst of its own lilac creation, if it was not for the thin shores of white separating the yellow sphere from its five purple friends. It comes in clumps. It is a social flower. With weaving stems and tiny leaves it is a delicate sight for the eye to see. There is something magical about its tiny violet being set against the backdrop of its own leafy greenness. It is as if the flower is floating, hovering, in front of you, slightly swaying to and fro in the breeze, as a cobra shifts left, then right, with the music of its charmer. You can find it littering the ground, or adding character to a wall. It has many grander cousins, each having a bit of its special brand of flare. But none are like it in all of its characteristics. Some are as seductive, but without its humbleness. Others are as humble, but are missing its setting sun. I sit here, remembering when I first saw this flower again, its image gently coming out of the small bit of gray shadow concealing it from sun’s view. Its name is apt. I surely will forget it; for its presence in the mind is as thin as it is sharp. However, I will not want to, and so, like those who first laid eyes on this special flower, I agree to using its more common name as a command: forget me not.
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I wrote this ode to my favorite flower whilst staring out a foggy window, seeing nothing but the heavy grey clouds, and agitated icy-grey waters of the North Sea. It only seems appropriate to relive its bright memory while witnessing a sunset that captures the color and warmth I was striving to describe.
