Lupus Alae

Spiritflights, fledgling and ancient


Yellow roses

I'll admit it: There are a few things that send my normally sunny temperament into derriere-twitching fits. The yellow rose incident pushed one of those big red "Do Not Push" buttons.

It was 2004 or so, and I was sitting in the midst of a beautiful campus in the Blue Ridge Mountains, enjoying the springtime sun and the colors splashed by Nature's generous hand all around me. I dared not close my eyes in the day's warm caress, lest I miss some new happening in the visual feast before me.

All around me, people hurried to and fro, to get out of the steady breeze or because they had something just so important and pressing awaiting that they couldn't take a moment to behold the glory of the day unfurled all around them. Not one person seemed to notice the sun, the blooms, the smiling Earth. Not one.

Pondering on this later, I became irritated and then downright angry, and I wrote this bit of prose to empty my head:

What, then, of the yellow roses? What is to become of them now? Are you so calloused as to have forgotten beauty, even when it is in front of your eyes so copiously produced? Can you not remember when you were one of the pure ones who could conceive of nothing more beautiful than the last blooms of summer, yielding gracefully to your touch when petal upon petal found a gentle caress in your hands? For shame, to forego such pleasures for knowledge and the pursuit of happiness. Why do you chase what you were born with? Why can you not see that the flowers will wither without you – and you without them?


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