Sometimes the power lies in your fingertips as they caress the darkness inside of you. Your fingers caress the darkness surrounding you and turn it into a vague light—a slight illumination of demons and angels housed inside your soul. Let the night breeze guide you into a spell that you sing like a lullaby for the flowers growing around your foundation. The silver glints in the candlelight as you let the building catch fire so that from the flames, your spirit can be reborn. Rise from candlelight as the candle burns out and smokes itself into the nothingness unrecognizable as air. Light irradiates from you and warms the frayed buildings that housed your beliefs in between the night sky. How perfect did your shell burn into and outwards throughout the night.
Without even knowing what she’s made for, that stranger caught her essence in the air like the scent of mango flowers often confused for jasmine flowers in spring evenings.
She asked for you to give what you could not, would not,chose to not provide. She spoke in hushed tones to the leaves so they could find and entwine her thoughts into flowers to bind into her hair—her dress was bare.
In whispered secrets, petals perfect falling down to ground that was dewy and refreshed so her soul could be newly found. She entered opal structures and enclosed her intentions with the hope that they would guide her ascension.
The mangos are ripe for falling off the trees—their beautiful range of coloration is from deep purple to green, then yellow, then ripe red. They’re comrades of the salty wind blowing through the long, pointed green leaves. That same wind wafts the scent of salt and pulpy sweetness begging for you to sink your teeth into it. Now the wind has brought forth the scent of sour oranges, lemony and citrus-like, yet sweet. The sour oranges lie in waiting for full maturity; they have almost met their goal as they prepare for their descent from its branches. The avocados wait, unready to meet the standards of maturity. They have much yet to grow. In September, their fragility will be its all-encompassing factor as our meals become laden with the soft feel of cool avocado pieces. The guavas are also ready, their flowers in full bloom as its fruit screams to be picked lest it rot on the branch and fall. The combination of fruits and moist salty air is refreshing to bones that saw winter for much too long in the plains of Iowan fields. Florida is a heaven on Earth waiting to bring forth all of its produce. My home is finally becoming familiar to me once again with every sway of the palm fronds reminding me of the sound of waves of a warm and clear blue beach.
We don’t need to reach up to the trees, their fruits will fall. We just need to stoop low as we bow in gratitude for the fruits of their labor. Colorful butterflies should be thanked as well, for filling up the scene with their random beauty. I will bow as frequently as I should until the sky stops mirroring the color of the ocean, the mangoes, the butterflies, the sour oranges, and the baby avocadoes. The sun will be the color of strawberries when the sun makes its last descent into the trees and sea. My body feels airy, as if it were preparing to fly alongside the butterflies frequenting my small little piece of heaven. Just wait until the jasmine blooms and the coconuts begin to fall. The orchids have already graced us with their satiny presence.