Saturday, October 02, 2004

For Lekshe, whose requests I can never turn down... and this one in particular because it reminds me, for some odd reason, of the challenge faced by geologists gamely attempting to meet reporters needs for exactitude in the art of predicting the tempermental moods of our local fire goddess St. Helens. Or maybe because of this statement from a local resident after the 1980 eruption from our local news:
"Cupping her hands, 64-year-old Dee Stone, remembers how her own rose garden became perfect receptacles for the volcanic ash. "I had 10 or 15 bushes. The ash went right into the folds of the flower," she said."

The Unseen Hand

It's not for you to unfurl the buds.
Shake them, hit them--you have no power
To make them blossom.
You soil them with your touch.
Tearing the petals and scattering them in the dust.
No colors appear, no perfume--
Ah, it's not for you to do that!

He who can open a bud does it simply
One glance, and the sap must stir
One breath, and a flower flutters in the wind,
Colors flash out like longings of the heart,
And perfume betrays sweet secrets.
He who can open a bud does it simply.
---Rabindranath Tagore

For another view of buds unfolding, please visit Maria's evocative poem "Roses"

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