Memories as rich as the redness of the flower; a flower so sweet and fragile, unique to one’s own eye.

“You are beautiful, but you are empty,” he went on. “One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passer-by would think that my rose looked just like you — the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.”

It is true that it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.

My heart faints within me. It grieves. But, in time, it will find the strength. Basking in the knowledge that I am His rose.

Quote lifted from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

Best viewed at 500

“Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.”

“In the course of this life I have had a great many encounters with a great many people who have been concerned with matters of consequence. I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand. And that hasn’t much improved my opinion of them.”

— Antoine de Saint Exupéry, Little Prince

a burst of colours
spitter spatter spat, spat, spat
reds, pinks, pale blues and yellows
on a fresh white canvas
texture, layer, and patterns
strokes and techniques
brushes, palettes, hands
the eye pulls it together
all from a creative mind
stimulates the senses
translates a multitude of thoughts
solidifies emotion
no longer fleeting
forever read

5 June 2008

Meanwhile, once in a while,
I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?

And I would touch the faces of the daises,
and I would bow down to think about it.

That was then, which hasn’t ended yet.

Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean’s edge.

I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.

— Mary Oliver, Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches? | West Wind: Poems and Prose Poems

Thanks, C.