Nature can nurture our writing, can nurture our soul. What is the language of Nature? And how do we learn it?
We look at the natural wonders around us and do not see them, hear, taste nor smell them. They do not touch us anymore than we dare touch them. And then we wonder why we feel so dead. To breathe in and live like a child again opens the Land of Wonderment. It's still there after all these years.
I couldn't agree more! Vexing
when they resort to such mundane descriptors — ‘nice’
Nice? We bloom with such grace and grandeur,
and all they can muster is "nice"?
It's like a chef preparing a sumptuous feast and being told
it tastes "okay."
We, the magnolias, deserve to be praised with eloquence and appreciation.
Our petals are as lush as silk, our fragrance as divine as a garden in full bloom.
Perhaps they need a lesson in botanical vocabulary to truly express our splendor.
Imagine if they said, "Your blossoms are a tapestry of resplendent white and pink hues,
delicate yet robust, exuding an aroma that dances with the zephyrs of spring."
Now, that's more like it!
So, my fellow magnolia, let us bloom on, knowing
that our magnificence transcends the simplicity of "nice."
And when they pause to admire our beauty, let us bask in the moment
when they find the words that befit our regal presence.
With petal-perfect regards,
A Magnolia in Full Bloom
What lovely gardening memories. I wonder if there's a public garden in which you could volunteer? There are lots of opportunities around here. I am not familiar with Thailand or Missoula though.
🌸 pwheeler - love joy peace Latin was dead ... from the perspective of youth. However, it has great applications in learning living languages and in the medical field.
I didn't know Conchita was a singer. I've known about her for years, but had no idea she was a singer and placed second in the EuroVision contest. That is impressive!
Our museums guard prize specimens: a Carolina canary, a dodo, a marsupial wolf. They are priceless once their brethren are exterminated. Pray that on some distant world there are pickled humans so we are never quite forgotten.
The Lorax had taught two generations that Trees matter, that Nature matters; but, the deafness of those dreaming of board feet and paved lots with parking fees had no soul. Sadly, there'd be no crisis once humans ceased to exist.
You're a copy. A poor one. You'll never be your dad or your twin. You're a doppelganger without a soul, without a reason to live. Only those bearing the burden of original sin may enter. Even baptism won't save you.
Trees stand proud, stuck in their spot, as they send leaves on their way. Branches reach their arms in praise and roots dig deep to hold tight. What's more steadfast than a tree; what story is more bittersweet each autumn?
Tired — petals weep then wither. They have given their all. Only time will tell the fruits of their labor, whether it yielded a harvest of sprouts, a continuance of life, someone's last dinner. When time itself collapses... hold me close.
September... Yes... I'll remember. Like indigo asters, worn-out stars fallen to earth... whilst shy sage bravely blooms, small yellow flowers that defy the coming freeze. October... and the wisdom of the frost calming my angst, putting unwanted thoughts to rest.
Not everything lasts. Not youth. Not beauty. Not the fragile petals of a roseate poppy. What endures is the memory of a puce colored wound that blossomed forth in a dream, then vanished as quickly.
Until you bloom like the cutting I took in Kansas of a night blooming orchid. I waited 17 years to inhale its fragrance. Tonight... will I inhale yours?
So many things are delicious just before they rot: bananas turning black, bread with a spot of mold, your teeth before they fall out. Death becomes you... more than leftover split-pea soup. I can vouch for that.
This is how it always begins. An urge to seek water and sustenance. An urge to cling to soils that nurture us. Finally, a shy shoot to greet the Sun. While roots... dig deeper into the heart they call home.
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