print previewback FLEDA BROWN
Wild Sweet Pea
In the margin between the hard surface and the grasses,
a tangle of small pink wings: sweet peas.
I read that the brain naturally gravitates toward negative
thoughts. A negativity bias. A wariness, a worry
for survival. Nevertheless, extravagant shades of pink.
Nevertheless, the billows of August, pointlessly excellent,
textured, wings (open hands), afloat on a sea of green
on this day in which the eye is sick from colluding with
the mind. In which there is this clarity, this brilliance,
and a gust of birds. We are all in the same place!
We (the whole of everything) are like lovers
who must ignore each other a while. In order to turn
back, new, the only new possible when you’ve
been together forever in this life. You’re willing then
to risk each other again. The small blossoming fear
that comes with knowing this will end. 
Walking in the Spring Grasses
Wild Sweet Pea