As I hold its stem,
All I can feel is grit.
The kind of feeling that sandpaper gives When accidentally rubbed against the skin.
But still, there is substance, weight, gravity.
As I work upwards, the harsh touches subside, But then give way to the thorns.
More visceral than the stem,
Each prick more substantial than the prior.
But there is a gentleness, a softness present
Bearing down, each spine gives way, collapses and then softens.
And then to the top,
Soft, open, fresh; the petals of the flower are it’s reward.
But how do I see flowers?
Do I peer at what first catches my eye, Or do I grab for the base, the bottom, The place where no one thinks to look.
It’s in my hand that I discover it’s real beauty, No one part stands alone.
It’s in all parts the this flower is beautiful, The greater beauty that’s found only in the unseen.
And so I sit, ponder and cling to it while it clings to me.
