The other day spring said its first word. It spoke in a birds voice and grew a flowers outside my house. I was the only one around to hear it .The others had places to go and people to meet, I like to wait for flowers to grow. . . . .
When they came back they knew spring had spoken. They asked me what the word meant. They called me to play their games with them, they called me to drink their drinks and dance their dances. I stayed quite and searched for windows from where I could see the gardens from. . . . .
I do not know love, I finally told them. I know just the word, the idea, I know what it should be and I know what it never can. I know that for you any meaning I can give will never make sense because to you the world makes sense, and they both never can, not together. . . . .
I went back home. Summer woke up, spring didn't even leave a goodbye note. It's flower had gone. I sat by my window to see my garden. Summer too wanted to know the secret and sent gifts to bribe me. A garden in bloom and this one flower next to my window that was so beautiful it hurt my soul just to look at it. . . . .
I stared at the flower, I did not understand it. I was afraid, afraid of it's beauty, of it's thorns, of it's promise and of all the feelings it made me feel. . . . . .
I bought paints and a large canvas and closed my window. A man of spring, I prefer my painted lies to perfect flowers not meant for me. But I could never find the right colors, the closed window begs to be opened and summers flower awaits behind it. . . . . .
If only it would say the word that spring did, the seasons wouldn't matter
When they came back they knew spring had spoken. They asked me what the word meant. They called me to play their games with them, they called me to drink their drinks and dance their dances. I stayed quite and searched for windows from where I could see the gardens from. . . . .
I do not know love, I finally told them. I know just the word, the idea, I know what it should be and I know what it never can. I know that for you any meaning I can give will never make sense because to you the world makes sense, and they both never can, not together. . . . .
I went back home. Summer woke up, spring didn't even leave a goodbye note. It's flower had gone. I sat by my window to see my garden. Summer too wanted to know the secret and sent gifts to bribe me. A garden in bloom and this one flower next to my window that was so beautiful it hurt my soul just to look at it. . . . .
I stared at the flower, I did not understand it. I was afraid, afraid of it's beauty, of it's thorns, of it's promise and of all the feelings it made me feel. . . . . .
I bought paints and a large canvas and closed my window. A man of spring, I prefer my painted lies to perfect flowers not meant for me. But I could never find the right colors, the closed window begs to be opened and summers flower awaits behind it. . . . . .
If only it would say the word that spring did, the seasons wouldn't matter
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