When I saw this lovely drawing which captures the softness of the Orchid so well, I thought I would share a poem about Orchids which touched my heart.
I grow Orchids and everytime a flower blooms I feel like celebrating. They need a lot of care and would not flower for months and sometimes for years ...and then they bloom! It's a very rewarding experience even more so because of the unpredictability of the whole experience. Hope you enjoy the poem.
Just as I wonder whether it's going to die, the orchid blossoms
and I can't explain why it moves my heart, why such pleasure comes
from one small bud on a long spindly stem, one blood red gold
flower opening at mid-summer, tiny, perfect in its hour.
Even to a white- haired craggy poet, it's purely erotic, pistil
and stamen, pollen, dew of the world, a spoonful of earth, and
water. Erotic because there's death at the heart of birth, drama
in those old sunrise prisms in wet cedar boughs, deepest mystery in
washing evening dishes or teasing my wife, who grows, yes, more
Seeing your lovely drawing makes me want to get my colored crayons out again. Lovely job.
ReplyDeleteShirley
Soft & beautiful colors. Lovely drawing Abgelique!
ReplyDeleteWhen I saw this lovely drawing which captures the softness of the Orchid so well, I thought I would share a poem about Orchids which touched my heart.
ReplyDeleteI grow Orchids and everytime a flower blooms I feel like celebrating. They need a lot of care and would not flower for months and sometimes for years ...and then they bloom! It's a very rewarding experience even more so because of the unpredictability of the whole experience. Hope you enjoy the poem.
Just as I wonder whether it's going to die, the orchid blossoms
and I can't explain why it moves my heart, why such pleasure comes
from one small bud on a long spindly stem, one blood red gold
flower opening at mid-summer, tiny, perfect in its hour.
Even to a white- haired craggy poet, it's purely erotic, pistil
and stamen, pollen, dew of the world, a spoonful of earth, and
water. Erotic because there's death at the heart of birth, drama
in those old sunrise prisms in wet cedar boughs, deepest mystery in
washing evening dishes or teasing my wife, who grows, yes, more
beautiful because one of us will die.
Poem by Sam Hamill.
Many, many thanks for your lovely words and poem! It is so highly appreciated, thank you!
ReplyDelete