Beauty



The bearded iris in bloom --
the leaves newly opened --
she cannot see these --
and her beauty we cannot see --
This is how we are all diminished
and almost crushed




Posted by on
Labels: , , ,

2 comments:

  1. AnonymousJuly 22, 2009 at 12:09 AM

    I am so sorry, still so sorry.
    I stop by occasionally to sit and read, and to send you caring thoughts, although we will probably never meet.

    My heart aches for you.
    ~Smith Mom~

    ReplyDelete
  2. Patricia MarkertOctober 17, 2009 at 7:33 PM

    I wish I knew who you were.

    ReplyDelete

Please leave a comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry