flowers and feathers
Such stochastic conversation.
I found them on my walk at the beach today.
I’m not quite sure what the words were made of, but I could smell them. The flowers bringing colours to call upon another time in a ceremony of memory. A memorial for someone who once upon a time transformed into subtle drops in this ocean I call home.
Of all hundreds of identities those flowers could present themselves, today they chose “the-not-forgetting”.
So beautiful in their resemblance that the sea decided to welcome them, transporting them, suspended on those drops that once before also welcomed another life.
Majestic the strength, the fury of those waves claiming beauty. And then… Right when beauty and the beast were coalescing, another quiet soul came to add some nostalgic words.
One of those rare birds from the islands of the north. Those small islands inhabited by trees, rocks, and birds. Their summer paradise for hundreds of years becoming their graveyard.
Avian influenza we call it. Like if the words in Latin make the death toll less painful. They don’t speak Latin. Flowers and feathers use another dialect, words we might not understand, tones we have lost, sacred dialogues.
The sand, the waves, the flowers, the birds, in the most profound relationship, conversing about death, I found them on my walk at the beach today…
…now part of my treasured sorrows.