Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers… .
How did it go?
How did it go?
- I hope we never forget the language of the flowers…I think that the day that happens to me will be the day that my soul dies. Sometimes I wake up in cold sweats thinking about the possibility of forgetting this language. What if I wake up one day, and can’t remember why bark is beautiful, or why I want a floor made of clovers, or the simple joy of the subtle creaking sound that a swingset makes? What if, in growing older, at some point I am forced to “grow up?” The mere thought terrifies me, it plagues my dreams. So, this may serve as my prayer, my simple plea to the flowers: Never forget me, never stop talking to me and telling me all of your secrets. Because, without the language of the flowers…all that’s left is words.
There should be a backspace button on life.
I hop onto a brick wall. Ducking under a low-hanging branch, I walk around. There is a bright yellow flower half hidden beneath a leaf. It’s a shy little friend, come to brighten my day. I climb up into the tree and am stopped by a spider web. Right in the crevice of a branch it lurks, half-broken, fighting to exist. In respect for it’s valiant spirit, I climb down.
Today I decided I’m never getting pregnant.