Picture: The Iris by Vincent Van Gogh
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Love is like a flower.
You can pluck it and macerate it,
Make a perfume
That will provide you with an illusory sense
Of permanence of its scent;
But that is not a flower anymore,
It has become something else: it’s dead,
Like a memory.
Or,
You can contemplate it, caress it, smell it,
Be aware of it with all your being,
Go and visit it every single day;
The flower will still be a flower,
Vital, thriving, alive
Until its natural transition.
And so
You can be.
Huā.
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Herons