My Dear,

Beware the man that doesn’t see. And see the flower that turns your eye upon it. Gently moving from one side and to the other

And then beware the man that cuts it from its ground. Presented as a token piece. With words as offerings from the Gods.

Hollow is this empty speech.

How much is missed when leaves turn and wilt. How when it’s hung and turned upside down. A cascading of petals covers the floor. Then thrown in room corners, the place where all things eventually go.

And it’s winter now. Drawing it down. Shrinking its size. A terrible stunt, that. Dreams of what it could have been.

I see this in the train conductor as he passes by asking for a ticket. Or in the vacant eyes of the lady in the cafe across. Going places she’d rather not see. I see it in places where we pluck. Grab and put in rooms-turn-box-prisons and then leave. I see it in her eyes, asking for me to stay.

So in that moment, when wild flowers scream. Remember to stop to breathe. And see the sun shining upon its stem. Long and stretched toward the clouds high. Where things are warm and quiet. And in that shine, you see the small hairs quiver.

Beware the man that doesn’t see.