flowers

I look at everything. God gave me eyes and I look at women and men and subway excavations and moving pictures and the little flowers of the field. I casually inspect the universe.

Let me be the type man who plants a field of flowers so you can be the type of woman who picks them.

he was so beautiful because when he held her he was not concerned with __eing a man._ __eing a man_ had nothing to do with this. these flowers pouring from his chest. _ weightless

Pick the weeds and keep the flowers.

I would far rather have two or three lilies of the valley gathered for me by a person I like, than the most expensive bouquet that could be bought!

Dreams are the flowers of imagination which bloom on the fertile grounds of the mind.

I have always been sensitive to vibrations and energies. Sometimes, I meet people and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I know that person is just wrong somehow. That their wiring is different, their moral compass screwed.

It was a very ordinary day, the day I realised that my becoming is my life and my home and that I don't have to do anything but trust the process, trust my story and enjoy the journey. It doesn't really matter who I've become by the finish line, the important things are the changes from this morning to when I fall asleep again, and how they happened, and who they happened with. An hour watching the stars, a coffee in the morning with someone beautiful, intelligent conversations at 5am while sharing the last cigarette. Taking trains to nowhere, walking hand in hand through foreign cities with someone you love. Oceans and poetry. It was all very ordinary until my identity appeared, until my body and mind became one being. The day I saw the flowers and learned how to turn my daily struggles into the most extraordinary moments. Moments worth writing about. For so long I let my life slip through my fingers, like water. I'm holding on to it now,and I'm not letting go.

I can't recall the sound of your voiceStill, I bring flowers and meet the skyask it to hold me, too.

Royal summoned mourners. They came from the village, from the neighboring hills and, wailing like dogs at midnight, laid siege to the house. Old women beat their heads against the walls, moaning men prostrated themselves: it was the art of sorrow, and those who best mimicked grief were much admired. After the funeral everyone went away, satisfied that they'd done a good job.

Hyacinth. Please forgive me.

A book about books is like a poem about poetry:Books are knowledge, paid for, all.Readers - horses in a stall.Stallions should always run.Lest they stale become, in turn.Running waters are most clear.In some books, you disappear __ose yourself, and track of time.How I wish that one was mine...Mine, to have, to write, to read...Mine, just like a flying steed.Mine, forever, - to improve.Would I then, of me, approve?I would not, I can't... myself.I'm but dust, swept off a shelf.Fly, can I, just 'til I'm settled,down, beside my flower, petalled.

Treat your relationship as if you are growing the most beautiful sacred flower. Keep watering it, tend to the roots, and always make sure the petals are full of color and are never curling. Once you neglect your plant, it will die, as will your relationship.

Love caught me with my pants down, watering skeleton flowers and humming the blues.

I love your roots, not the flower everybody sees!

I have seen flowers come in stony placesAnd kind things done by men with ugly faces,And the gold cup won by the worst horse at the races,So I trust, too.

Through the Mud (from the book Blue Bridge)A line of robots,We approach a wall of mud,Some of us carrying flowers.The others laughBit when we enter that wallIt is the flowersThat will make us an arkTo carry us on through the darkness,Sailing throughWith our symbols the only lightUntil we flyOut over the fieldsOn the other side of midnightAnd all our wires And bits of metal fall off.-And our souls are bright again,So new and lightThey shoot up __p to plant our brilliant flowersLike starsIn the face of heaven.

I love you like the plant that does not bloomand carries in itself, hidden, the light of those flowers,