Gardenias shaped to a lazy afternoon.
Sunlight draping around each sweet-scented bloom.
Counting seconds as blessings, velvet petals soon fade.
Disappearing quickly like quarters in an arcade.
Moments to cherish, no seconds to waste.
So different from yesterday when our youth we did taste.
From moment to moment each year goes by.
Summers get shorter as we ask ourselves why.
Fragrance as sweet as life's early years.
Minus such thoughts of regretful filled tears.
To ponder life's seasons in a memory filled room.
Savoring gardenias shaped to a lazy afternoon.
When I was a young girl growing up in Raleigh, NC, - get this - it was me and 4 adults living in the house plus whatever pet/s - recipe for dysfunctional woman in later years - actually I had a wonderful childhood, my paternal grandparents were my best friends. All 4 of 'em, I deemed, acted so silly over the one gardenia bush that we had at the corner of the house. Every year that bush bloomed, those 4 would just dance around, "it blooming, it bloomed, isn't it gorgeous, just smell it, wonderful." The dance would go on for a couple of weeks each year as I sat back with my cynical, over the nose look.
Guess what? All 4 of those silly people have now passed to gardenia heaven. Sure wish they were here, sure wish I had a gardenia bush. Isn't it something about memories? I can't think about that ole gardenia bush with out getting choked up. Wonder of that bush is still at the corner of that house. Hmmm. I haven't been back to Raleigh in years.
Yes, you know I'll have a goat baby named Gardenia.
On the saddest day in the saddest year of your life,
a child will bring you a creamy gardeniain a glass of milk.
This isn’t a prediction,this is truth,
clear as the stream that flowsfrom a rainbow that will never disappear.
Nor will you. Not now. Not soon.
Not while the faded blossom blooms again,
not while bird song fills the air with motes of light,
not while you sip the milk in the glassholding the creamy gardenia that child gave you:
death’s prophecies are buried beneath the earth’s dark hide.Summer traps lacy ferns in vesper-scented breezesbillowing from oceans of air: this is what you breathe as though it wereyour own spirit. Perhaps it is, you who dance with each and every follower of bliss.
© by Elizabeth Kirschner
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