Gladiolus

There is a moment in time where the flower comes. Our flowers have bloomed; they are thirsty.

It has struggled through it's many phases. It has rooted. It has sprouted. It has grown tall. It has budded.

Then it is gone.

There are those on the deck that are concerned with names. Its name is gladiolus. In Latin it means sword flower.

But I was often puzzled by the names they drew forth. These names meant next to nothing. We might as well have been talking in first names.

"Phillip's work is the perfect example of expressionism."

"Matthew's is the founder of restrained drawing."

These examples of art by names makes me think of paint by numbers.

I think back to the morning.

A child dances with the uncontrolled gait of the morning. He rolls his foot slightly too much, then not enough. His eyes still encrusted with the remnants of dream, but still skipping about his day. A feat I'd be willing to relearn and pay dearly for its rite. A splash of the heckler hitting water, as a teenager hits a target near a tank filled. The boy skips and sings about nothing that makes sense to rigid old minds.

I watch a small girl's satisfaction of blinking awake into the sun, clutching her fathers khakis. The father's iced latte suddenly spills and splashes the pavement. Afterwards, the bees will sing his praises in his own ear, which he will dismiss with a shake of his fist. The girl will sit near the puddle and watch them dance about and wonder upon the structures and patterns of wings.

This is, of course, our brightest Saturday. The children dance and take us with us. There's so much to learn in every moment. A world not yet of Rothko and Barney. There are always miracles.

And flowers and bees.