Every spring the unopened flower buds parade as if juvenile soldiers standing ready to enter the shoes of mature flowers. They also scream the limitless potential. For they are not yet flowers, but they are, in a sense, flowers; or they are potential-flowers, or flowers-to-come. I wrote an ode to these flowers, or flowers-to-come, a poem that I recited to the flowers. They are at once carrying the world, but also the vulnerability of the world.
I invite you to read this poem with the flowers as a backdrop, or the poem as a backdrop for the flowers. I walk in the garden every morning with a cup of coffee to see how these flowers are, almost as of they are family. I talk to them and touch them to see if they are doing well. Few people understand the work it takes to keep them happy.
I present to you some photographs of the unopened flower bud. All the photographs are taken by me and my trusty Nikon D300 camera, either with a Tamron zoom-macro lens or the Nikkor 50mm f1.8 lens.
Limitless potential you carry
As if in the cusp of your hands
Holding for the world a show
That has not yet begun
Limitless potential you carry
Luring in the bees the ants the spiders
For all to see
A show that has yet to start
The bud an unopened flower
Dancing in the wind
Your vulnerability another silent show
You whish no one would see
For if you bend too early
No one would see
The beauty you might have been
And the limitless potential ceases
Limitless potential you carry
As if in the cusp of your hands
You hold the unborn children
Of tomorrow safely nestled still only an idea
Limitless potential you carry
Luring the eyes of those who know where to look
For your beauty has yet to come
And for now, only showcases what might be
What might be is still not yet
But from the previous years
We anticipate your petals and seeds
That will colour the garden with rainbow treats
For now, we wait
In anticipatory angst
Because for now, anything can happen
That might hinder your growth
But alas, a story told for thousands of years
Your beauty inspiring the poets long dead
But the words remain true
Written about your flowers that will come year after year
