dried flowers

as the snow is wind-whipping in sparkly white vortices outside in the evening becoming, i have a chance to look around our house. all over the place, in corners, on shelves, are little collections of dried flowers. . . each flower with its own associations . . . memories in the eyes and hearts and souls of the reciever and the giver . . . . collected together they form a colourful depiction of acknowledgements, remembrances, sorrows allayed, love celebrated.

not so very long ago, dried flowers were something i associated more with endings, death, emptiness. no more. words from wiser people prevailed and opened my eyes.

the poet basho said “the temple bell stops but i still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.” 

adabella radici observed that “a flower's appeal is in its contradictions - so delicate in form yet strong in fragrance, so small in size yet big in beauty, so short in life yet long on effect.”


o me! o life!
 
o me! o life!... of the questions of these recurring;
of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities fill'd with the
foolish;
of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I,
and who more faithless?)
of eyes that vainly crave the light--of the objects mean--of the
struggle ever renew'd;
of the poor results of all--of the plodding and sordid crowds I see
around me;
of the empty and useless years of the rest--with the rest me
intertwined;
the question, o me! so sad, recurring--what good amid these, o me, o
life?

answer.

that you are here--that life exists, and identity;
that the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

walt whitman