The grief blooms as if it is spring.

The pace set out so there is no moment of reprieve without a fresh wave of colour that accosts us, like blood on the white walls of the world. Like we have a hay fever hysteria that makes the good fuzzy with our focus on the misplacement of pollen.

We do not ask for the bees with their sad lull to come and help us grow, yet here we stand buzzing. Yet we collect the coloured petals of this feeling we can’t keep up with – pressed between pages so we can pull up its resource again just to prove to ourselves that we experienced such rawness.

To be vivid is to be present, so know that when the flowers fall from the books of stories we forgot we had written do not be alarmed by their faded fragility. Do not let the tenderness of its being allow you to tread too carefully in the turning of pages. Know that the seasons wane to give us a fresh start, and that while being made of stardust does not make us special, it at least gives us the impression we are eternal. That the more delicate something is, the more we pay attention to it between our fingers.

The soft resolve of blooms beyond their times reminds us to dissolve as well. That this is the cycle and these are the seasons – that we are never really gone or forgotten. That although our time here may be short, it is not defined by it’s impermanence.


For Deijomi, his family, and all those in this generation that feel weighed down by loss.

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