She is carefree,
picking wildflowers
under the bright blue summer sky
the eye of an artist,
she knows exactly what she wants
as clouds drift us by
she brings the flowers home,
not yet having mastered, the art —
of letting pretty thing go
-not like I have-
and I hold the book open
as she places flowers
pink, yellow and blue
between pages
ready to be pressed
ready to be preserved
held between my gaze
and the golden sunset light
she shines –
and I burn the image to my mind
quietly knowing
we are the wildflowers
endeavoring to prolong our summer
before all this ephemeral love —
falls away
maybe tomorrow
leaving behind
only
the sound of soft petals
embracing the earth.
© Tima Loku 2020
We all have transient things we want to hold on to.
She pressed flowers and I pressed all the images of us into my memory.
Isn’t that the point of art? Of poetry, photography, painting…
“The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young [maybe not just the young] translated into practice.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando
Being Enchanted 
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