By Kyle Legrone
I watched an orchid in repose. It wanted to be as any flower, it supposed, but found this reality troubled. Standing there alone, head bowed to the east, the composure seemed too much. It wanted to be loosed. Wanted much more than the ground could support or the roots supply. The nectar was hers long before it had been laid claim to by so many others. With each fallen petal, shaken by the broken storms that raged around her, she couldn’t seem to shake away that longing. A nectar of her own. Not in creation would her desire be sated, but in consumption alone. Wherefore to be sweet is without care. The rain came on strong that night, thunderous storms, and the orchid was resigned.
The star strikes at the heart of the dahlia. Expectations hold their own challenge. She is a personality of only two forms; bright and vibrant, but does not one make the other? The question falls upon deaf ears like the dried petal to the soil. And yet, she fancies the pollen. What would she not give to have her questions glide upon the air, soft and far? The air ferrying the message across, desperate to reach the hearing of another — more constant — soul. How long must the sun endure its shine before it goes the way of the candle? How long does eternity last? Her brightness is the same, she feels, but the expression is terse. She cannot form the words, and the desperation of search floods throughout the roots, weighing her down. The rain seems a little too harsh now, and the dahlia is resigned.
She holds the key to the latest trend. The prickly pear is touted everywhere as the next great cure-all. They say it can grant the desires of weight loss, strengthen teeth and bones, and even promotes good heart health. She knows well the things they say she can do, but she’s unimpressed. They aren’t lies, but she scoffs at the credit. After all, she is just a cactus, and whatever benefits others derive from her use bring no benefit to her. She consumes the irony. The prickly pear is pursued for its heart benefits, but what benefits the heart? The question falls strange and heavy against the flower. Her thorns offer no defense, but are quickly overwhelmed. The rain falls scarcely in this desert of yearning, but the added pressure is too much. It is to this state of unquenchable thirst that she is become resigned.
From first glance its appearance betrays the soul. The sunflower stands erect in the field and will be outshone by none. Bright yellow petals like these surely are not for the shy of heart. And yet, could you ever tell one from the others amongst the field? This masquerade serves its purpose, but she longs for something more. Yes the birds come, and yes, they go, but how she adores them. She does not wish to fly away; but maybe she does. The ground can be so hard, and the air so soft. To lift up her petals in the face of the sun and alight upon the breeze. She truly likes who she is, no one could ever deny this. But, maybe she doesn’t. Ah, the exquisiteness of being different. To be a “bird of paradise” visiting from some distant shore. To fly! They, too, are bright and yellow, but they belong to the world. Beholden to none. Unloosed. Free! Perhaps she is too. “The sun will rise, the rain will fall, and the ground will be hard. This I know. But I don’t approve; and I will not assent. I – too – will be the bird of paradise, says the flower. And I am not so resigned!”