A flower that struts its pale bloom or drips vibrant with pouting lips, the bird that sings with its soul perched within its throat, how we strive to hold their beauty to our hearts. But despite our impassioned senses or perhaps because of them, how despairingly we fall short of gleaning the true divinity within that pale blossom and that song that thrills.
I find that after a few moments, I have to look away because I am unable to take it in. It becomes incomprehensible, overwhelming. That rather miniscule drop of divinity that I presume to be within me responds to that beauty. But the rest, the undiscerning and abjectly blind human, shies away from it.
It has to be taken in tiny sips, tiny and sweet and fragrant, that suffuse the mind and lull it into a slow languorous state of grace. The way a drop of ink bursts upon water, the blush and the marigold, the verdant and the azure burst upon the liquid mind and seep into the soul, curling curling their painted fingers around one’s heart. I have to close my eyes for fear of drowning. And yet it is not enough. ‘ere my eyes have closed, they fly open again to drink in some more of this riotous madness of spring that dances madly, profusely upon my drunken vision and puts me in the propinquity of all that is divine.