Flowers' Riot

She Is Flowers' Riot

she is root and stem and leaf and bud and bloom and seed

she is blushing pinks and barely blues and yearn of yellows

spring knew her winter's struggle and promise

on pale lips of tomorrows   yet she strained

to rush into a riot of happy splotches of stupendous strange colors

oh     come spring   come gardener    let us unbury the dead leavings

of last years sins    to grasp what is bone and bent

pull at the roots until memories scroll green

from places we have sorrowed

beautiful squirm of brilliant buds attempt to spiral against late frost

until they win their battered battle and rise     rise up like prayers

summer's stun drew her up to create her own shade of splayed leaves

she flung bouquets of phrases, words and shapes

out into a world that might not see them in their rush

to choose something better to bend to

but bloom she does even more bunched up than yesterdays

amidst rocks and stones and sticks and sharp storms

attempting to quieten her quest to be beautiful

fall trails cold fingers to trace aging against each bloom

she knows      too soon     another blow could shatter her

as she becomes more brittle and     sometimes    more broken

until she huddles against the only warmth she can find

her mother's breast    though no nurturing there any more

but a remembered lovely place to fall

winter beats against her until her bones grind against a season

she has known would always come   white goddess

throws her wrap as if to shelter her what bit could be

whiteness covers her    attempts to erase her slow demise

she wilts      as all things do     when an oldness takes over

and she remains silent      still  amidst strewn remembrances

of what a riot her life had been

©Carol Desjarlais 3.8.19

Without us, the world would have been a dreary place; lack of color, of scent, of joyful song, of maternal nurturing, of magic.  Our roles have changed drastically since the beginning of time, and it continues to grow. We went from innate gut actions and reactions to what women of my lifetime have to deal with in order to bloom. 

In today's world we are to behave like the feminine and think like our brothers.  I do not know when a woman's mind turned to over thinking, overworking, over guessing, and into this emotionally-centered being we have become. 

From the beginning of time, where we only feared nature to where we fear ourselves;  where bravery and courage went from merely turning and beginning growth to where we question our very femininity; to where security and safety includes way more than nature.  Life of a woman has become so complex.  Our very body is required to do more and yet, within, is the cradle of posterity. Within  is the amygdule that keeps us tied to the actions and reactions of Eve that needs shelter, air, water, food, companionship.  We have gone to being able to take care of ourselves to accepting that we need others to help us provide our basic needs.  How difficult it is to grow in this new garden.

We all seem to have the need of authenticity and it whips and bends and bows us as we try to figure out who we are in this time, in this place.  It gnaws at us.  'IT' being LIFE.  Thank goodness for the bird of hope is alive and well in this garden of life.  It is that sweet song of courage and hope and belief that we hear in the chambers of our heart that brings us to a place of patience, calmness, faith, hope and service for others.  Those are the attributes of Eve that carries on within us, causing us to give birth to ourselves, the courage to go on, the stamina it takes to get through those dark valleys and nights of the soul.

©Carol Desjarlais 3.11.19