Eutierria.

In this pergola of withering purple flowers that glow towards the rising sun in the morning in the pink of its health and simply thuds to the ground as the night ambles ,gentle, gracious and beautiful, one by one, they don't resist; they simply float down with the gentlest of breeze and touch the earth for the very first time to be one with where they emanate. It has served its purpose and now obediently retires to complete its cycle. It will dry up to the morning sun tomorrow, the same morning sun that energized it today. The purple will leisurely brown and then crumble dry to dust that the wind will carry to far away lands, in this course of intense action it doesn't lose its essence, it remains the dust that comes from the flower from the climbers on the pergola that I sit beneath and write of it,while the cool stone bench absorbs my warmth and my weariness.I sit still and let it. I sit still and observe how the purple flowers continue to fall with light thuds at intervals so precise, as if to mimic the rythm of my soul's pandemonium, like they all somehow know that I am aware of them. Like I observe them, they seem to observe me,a crumb of nature just like those purple flowers, they are aware of the time that I can sit and let the stone bench absorb my warmth while I still have it in me. The crickets cry in a language only the purple flowers understand, I try sometimes (to cry like them not understand them ofcourse, cause I'd dare not attempt to understand something that wasn't intended for me to understand) nature works that way you see, she doesn't give away all her secrets at once, she's mysterious enough to get us suspicious and test our curiosity, yet she lets us know only what she wants us to know. Of those few things definitely she wants me to know that December always brings these tall trees to bloom, they give out branches only at the very top, their overtly sweet scented flowers always grow in bunches and emit a strong fragrance that gives me a headache. I wonder why different flowers smell different. These bundles of flowers always seem to fall seperately never as a bunch. How kind should nature be that it individualizes every flower and its every petal and its different smells and the language of everything unique to it's species. The moon is hidden behind the always pink skies of this city and I think I'll sit just a little bit more,just a few minutes more,to observe the smells of different things I feel one with the breeze and the purple flowers that fall because of the breeze. Just a few minutes more to listen to the crickets chorus in unison and let my warmth be absorbed while I still have the warmth in me. Some time more of such a perfect night, not different from any other just perfect in my mind and in the minds of the tall trees with the overtly sweet scented flowers.

NSY