An immaculate collision took place between the extended bounds of ovules. It matured unfathomed and surplus. Within its depth pores still it pricks as if it's torn away and turned against the wounds it corresponds with. They hurt thy, breathes through its swaddlings, and unsettles thee. A ceanothus hue casted upon the immuniating sight of an iris dipped in chartreuse honey; and, no longer had his waited for the wind to lift thy gaze and sway toward his. She wore a white frock tied with lace along the ends that fancies the wind, and she wore it wearily stained upon the dirt. It folds beneath in solitude while peered back down to the peonies, imagining their feathers telling her to come hereth. . . encouraging her soul to bloom double-edges, but thy was too pure to dance with the Devil in the garden. To hold his palms so as the bleeding stems, and be one with the earth. Yet, she had a carnivorous quality to her that the others weren't composed of, the kind that you could only notice if you paid attention to the shallowness of flaws. Not yet composing her constraints, and he too fondled the petals stained blush in dew like a soft, small, and plump pliable structure. It stood proud beneath the shade while eyes of lucidity sunk within its body, each pointed arch, as she analyzed his long hands that rinsed upon its gentle phanse. Sullied pores of cotton had been cascaded by a shadow near the crystal vase he too had held while he plucked them one by one, and it had been refracted onto a refulgent atmosphere of pure welkin blue. Chasmic pupils shrunk as the shadow descended into distance and became more luminous; they told a story only the flowers could bear to understand. She watched him with a kind of discontent that grew ripe, and sweet when he cut them.
Each brown follicle that struck from his scalp she imagined plucking, smiling at the thought, and then allowing it to fade in rue; nothing lasted long. Sometimes it was rather saccharine, things go by faster that way, and other times it's rather bitter with no in-between.
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Out of the conservatory grew many flowers, such flowers consisted of peonies. They came up through the loose molten soil allowing the buds to test the air like a bee's antlers, then swelling, huge-dark-red and amber petals all shining like satin. Then they burst, and decay. They're longing adored and admired, but it is their end that always awaits where they become nothingness. Peonies and Tulips are special flowers, they can appear with streaks, strikes, and feathering of discoloration. Their peculiar image is considered beautiful, but it is such that makes them suffer: The cause of this is due to a virus that breaks the cultivar's lock on a single color. It weakens the bulb and disrupts the flower's propagation, then ending the genetic line, and affects the flower in unnatural ways. Forever altered.
It is such I found myself thinking about when the earth hadn't decided what season it wanted to be, winter or spring, snow or rain. The days seemed to collide within itself like droplets on a window's pane. As the glass filled with silky milk, smearing residue upon the crease, a bird's claw grasped onto the window's threshold, and its eyes peered into mine as if it knew my name, but dared not to say. Strange bird, I thought. The rain showered the window's threshold, it sung like an instrument- an orchestrated rhythm it was. It stood in the morass among the casememt in which had been left unattended. Briefly gazing upon its stained beak, then to its eyes, it steals drowsily, and musically upon mine. It exited expressionlessly into nothingness. The sky turned grey, coloreless, and dim. The feathers soared the sky effortlessly, and yet the leaves had nowhere to go, they were captured in time, dancing upon its branches carelessly, more vigorously. I've been studying the bird's behavior beyond my bedroom, when leaving the house, I've noticed them standing still within the fields, trees, roofs, lawns, and bushes as if they're waiting for something. They peer when bread is thrown as if it is poisoned, and eat what's evolved in the grass. Once their kraken eyes analyzed their surroundings I began wondering if they sensed something that a human is incompatible of sensing; that they knew something, but could not tell; for they had a secret. Their beaks are locked full of secrets I suppose. They wouldn't tell if they could speak, so as we do, because they're wise creatures; they've inherited the value of silence. Oddly enough, my thoughts had shifted away from the mystery of the birds, it intrusively became a vibrant picture of red, blue, and greens in my mind. I could just close my eyes and picture the blooming carnations, tulips, and lillies in the yard. In one instant before they come apart they're like cherry blossom seeds erupting in the soil. Sharpened edges sliced the stems in two-halfs, it tumbled upon the tip of shoes, and strayed under the grass. My God Father always had an infatuation with a unique kind of tulips, the ones that consisted of many vibrant hues intertwined, the diseased ones. I watched him cut the stems as the light shined through the glass panels, and I carried a flat basket, to put the flowers in once he had ordered me out of the conservatory and back into the garden to cut more flowers.
His waist straighted to carry my gaze, he held the flower stems in his grasp. I tuck my head down while I walk, keeping my posture along. My hands are clasped in front of me; knuckles reddened. I can't remember a time where they weren't like that. The toes of my shoes go in and under the grass, crunching on the pathway. I watch the peonies and tulips out of the corner of my eye. I know they shouldn't be there, it's spring. There are five more bushes now, growing beside him, straight out the path itself. Furtively he reaches out his hand for me to touch one. It has a dry feel, and I realize it's made of satin. Then, up ahead I see a sheep, head fallen over and blood striking down into its eyes. Around its neck is dandelions, it's lifting its head up in my direction, gazing its eyes for mercy, yet it speaks, but not to me. These dreams never come often, yet not I remember them all, but I knew so vividly the sheep that lay in the garden, eerily speaking. It is such that I dreamt this morning, metaphorically it could mean anything, but since then I've noticed peculiar occurrences like the glaring birds. I am somewhat conscious in my dreams, I was aware it wasn't real when dreaming, yet I could feel the sensation of false petals in my palms, and fright when I had awakened.
" Are you alright" he asked, hovering above me such as God would in Heaven. He caressed my hair to comfort me while I laid there, and it felt as though the sun had beamed into my eyes, blinding me, but there was no light shining upon thee. He softly repeated himself once more, and I responded to the sky that evolved in desorate gloom, " I am, Father".
" You had fainted, it must have been the heat"
" I feel cold. "
" It is raining soon, but before the sun had risen above you," he told, followed by a brief kiss he sat me up, and pick the grass from my hair, " go inside, and wait for me".
"I haven't finished picking-"
" What do you think is proper?" putting the flowers back into the basket.
"I- pardon?" I was hesitant to respond. Father has a way of asking questions in search of no response. I could feel his breath become more shallow, and poised in crudeness. He batted his lashes in dissatisfaction at my words, and I shrunk beside him. His face fixated towards mine, voice deepening, " It isn't proper to be eager to do the opposite, in which I infer. Now. Go inside."
I watch him through the corner of my eyes, and I feel as if I'm surrounded by an ominous presence, this presence has been beyond touch, beyond reach, beyond any fate that awaits. It appears to be distant, but it has been closer than ever since that one morn. And when I look beyond the field I do see that figure holding its hand out for me to grasp, yet it's no darkness that pursues thee, but aspiration that makes me gaze in a blur. And, when I think--I think of thy who stands beyond the fields, thy who fancies me ever so strangely. And, when I hurried in the house toward the living room, thudding against the wooden table to look out of the window where the sky no longer had any ounce of brightness, pure dust. Something swelled up inside when I saw the sky melt that dawn, its tears were of bullets upon the glass, and I began to wonder if Father thought the same thing when it rained upon his skin. I then sat there in my shiny mary jane shoes, and embroidered white sicks waiting for him. The only sound I could hear was wind, and the porch swing banging against the wall so as thunder; it comforted me. He had a petrichor smell to him when he entered the room, he smelled dirty. Instantly I leaned my head backward when he brushed his hand through my hair, leaving some mud on my cheek for me to wipe off. I always enjoyed watching him prep the flowers for display, so I followed him to wash them. He'd always start at them stems then work his way up to the petals, he cleansed them with a damp cloth under warm water. I always helped out when I could, it made me feel important, even if all I did was stand there. He would say, " You know what Dia, someday you're going to be a bloomed flower too, and you'll be picked" I would smile, and so would he. I wasn't sure if that would ever happen, but I always dreamed of a boy waiting for me to say 'I do', and having children of my own someday. I would risk dying faster just to be loved, and that's just because not all things are fair in life.
Well at least in this town.
