Plumeria

Flowers of May

Haiku, composed as I picked up a fallen plumeria from the ground on a morning walk in Hawaii Kai

trembling plumeria

- within my hands, imprisoned;

instead captures me.

Hearts-On-A-Chain

Flowers Of May

We are essentially rhythmic. Patterns that define us return again and again,

and in these returns we find our substance and our continuity, 

our original nature and our identity. -Thomas Moore

Henry says, beaming, Let’s go to Manang Deling’s house!

Yes, she has da best cadena-de-amor flowers, Didi agrees amiably.

The moon has barely gone to sleep and the leaves have just awakened. There are freckled places on the ground where pale sun rays are just beginning to sift down through the apple star trees. It is first light, and the children are out as suddenly as if a switch had been flicked.

In my city of Where-The-Nilad-Grows, it’s the children who wear the flower corsage on Mother’s Day. Effortless youth, robust and vigorous and unfinished, gather small fistfuls of the hearts-on-a-chain florets which are gathered into a small bouquet and pinned right above the heart on the kamiseta shirt or baro.

Did you bring a pin? Ned's voice is brisk. Lebby, I need one. Right. Here. He emphasizes each word, as he points above his left pocket.

The scenery takes on sunlight and pulse as small posies are formed, then roughly cinched. Sweeps of color, bands and spatters, the face of saturated light fill the now-brightening day.

Many of the children pluck bunches of the dark pink flowers. Dark pink is the color for those whose mother is still living.

Others gravitate to the vines with the white heart florets. White is the color of death. It is for those mothers who have passed on. There is something about the pallid corsage that breathes a kind of sadness, a missing heartbeat. 

Yet for these children, the very thing that would normally crush them - the tragic, sorrowful, painful - becomes transformative.

Indeed, for all of them, today is a brilliant new day, more perfectly illuminated than the last. The endless chatter dominates. The girls laugh as young girls do, in shy waves of the voice. There is only here and now.

A neighborhood is whatever anyone wants to remember about it. The neighborhood may change. Children grow up, but patterns remain. The world persists. The world heals from even the mythical power of death.

Mother’s Day in my city of Where-The-Nilad-Grows is too spectacular, in so many ways, to ignore.

Morning Glory

Flowers of May

There is no sun without shadow,

and it is essential to know the night.– Albert Camus

The night is about done. Mild air from the west steals along bringing with it a self-conscious sense of some profound moment in the making. From the patio, I can see sunrise bringing on the early light of day.

Sure enough, in no time at all, it starts to woo the morning glory to unravel. Morning Glory! Lyrical in itself and beautifully named. Sun Worshiper. Aurora’s Maid. Its florets burst forth into a cluster of jubilant blue, amethyst, periwinkle bells. They hang like a foil shimmer on dawning edge, taking on the pulse of wakening life.

Throughout the day, I watch this delightfully stunning purple bloom match the splendor of the steadily-climbing sun. Nothing has ever seemed more awake, more alive.

But soon everything will change. The sun smolders blood-red in finality, then flares out. Just as the maple trees cast lengthening shadows in the late afternoon sunlight, the morning glory will surrender all individuality and begin to merge into the shadowy mass.

Twilight silhouettes the rooftops. A few swirled stars come into view.

The long night has come again. It falls and keeps on falling.  

The purple posy curls its petals. 

Seized by a weirdly thrilling lethargy, it retreats in the cold earth-smelling dimness in a seeming state of hopelessness. Despite its best effort, its eyes close. Limp creeping tendrils hang in the soft air, balanced in some ethereal lull.  A small wind stirs the leaves.  Otherwise all is silent. The morning glory drifts into sleep.

Yet its heart keeps vigil, for it knows that darkness will fill its spirit with light.

It knows to wake up to a Celebration of Return in the morning after the Death of Night.