Roselie

Roselie

By: Enigmatic Angel

Through the ages, mankind has breathed a type of life into places, spaces and things that had a life of their own.

The human enterprise ascribes qualities to things of a perceived lower nature.

Unto nature itself and the seemingly inanimate, we breathe life; a life that shimmers back at us our own psychic projections.

Such is the tale of the flower; inscribed as gentile, emanations of alluring scents, supple lines that dip into sweet centers, graceful stems that prop prettified petals.

Such is the marriage of the female and the flower.

Such is the marriage of the mother and the blooming.

Her pollen wafts and lassoes the hummingbird to her presence; the influence reverberates far beyond the garden where she stands, and there and potentially everywhere, life springs eternal.

But dare I re-inscribe this long-told tale.

For certain is the flower's delicacy a deserved pivot of civilization; the laudatory proclamations are well-directed, but draw nigh and peer through introspective microscopes and revealed unto the third eye and the heart space a ruggedness of determination; that zealous existential drive that would have a mother self-sacrifice for the lives that she hath inscribed.

In the lowliest of ravines, amidst the most acrid sensations, glorious flowers take no notice; their splendor, a beacon among decay and decline;
a ruggedness that simply refuses to be stifled, snuffed out and silenced.

Mother, you rugged flower, wherever you toil, wherever you bloom, I salute you.

Your defiance, splendidly colorful, rivets the soul of mankind to never surrender.

And from you blossomed a Rose, the Enigmatic Angel.