Flowers don’t talk in words

My soils climb from the end of my toes
To the middle of a gentle soul.
The sunshine reaches so very deep inside and warms thoughts aimlessly dragged over sharp stones.
Flowers don’t talk in words
They just look at you
And silently reflect their worth.

There are a million vermillion things going on under my feet,
Things for which I have no understanding.
Processes mixed with quiet, not coated in honey or perfumed with apple blossom.
They don’t want to be counted, orchestrated or hung on the line to dry
Like the law for a falling feather which can’t explain why it landed in my hair.

One word found and another one lost.
I plant the ones I have collected in my eyes and hide them on this page,
The others drift aimlessly in circles to be found another day.
Artists, just like memories can only capture moments,
Yet we’re all just a constantly changing sky.

I wonder why?

We all need new words, repeat old stories and breath our worth into new ones.
My vocabulary needs fresh experience and a big net to sift old thought into new.
These old fingers, soil ingrained and dusty,
Yearn for new creases and folds
And a touch that elicites the reason
Why flowers can’t talk in words.

Worn out carboard boxes, empty spaces that once contained worlds,
Can’t fill their former expectations, nor carry a book or two.
Even their expiration dates are faded and worn,
Yet a mouse made a home and a spider a corner for its web.
Old zentihs, capillary magicians, forgotten endings all still breath deep.

I think I understand why flowers can’t talk in words.
It’s because they might upset the bees.

Artikkeli Adrian Evansista on julkaistu Kotiliedessä 15/16.