The Flower Seller

The cellophane of pain.

Housekeeping:

I watched this man get annoyed with those that loved him most. I could see his irritation and also his love. I can’t divulge the scenario or the man in question, but know this, he’s on my mind, has much to lament and much to love.

He is my hero. I think of him often.

The Flower Seller.

(image is by artist Moira McClaren and happens to have been my mum)

It’s insidious.

If you are not careful it will wither and die.

Slant cut the ends, remove the superfluous then wrap in cellophane.

I watch as family members fuss, he slaps away well intentioned hands.

It’s exhausting the doing and exhausting to watch.

A grown man that knows a craft, his craft, and surrounded by people watching the fisherman haul nothing in particular.

Fuss, smooth and hover.

The face has altered but the eyes have not.

The flush of skin conveys volumes if you are looking.

The detail, the slight of hand, removal of thorns.

Quickly surround with silken ties, cover up the imperfections.

Crystal filled with tepid water.

Gently arrange the stems just so, blot the spillage, wipe the counter.

Arrange, step back and admire.

Turn, look again, rearrange the offending line.

Silent acceptance, quiet mind and knowing stare.

Beautiful in the day light, beautiful because he’s here.

Watched carefully, refreshed with water.

Constant distraction, pleading privacy.

Quiet contemplation, to be admired, to be cared for and to be present for a while.

Its insidious seen through clear eyes, but the beauty not hidden by clear cellophane.

It teases and then releases its nature, releasing all its humanness to the room.

To be admired beyond its first flush - admired and loved.

Always loved.

Live Well.