The Blogs: Flowers Ungiven Have No Breath

I started buying flowers on Friday mornings, a bouquet, flowers in my hand.

I buy them, like I have someone to buy them for, someone in my heart, someone in my soul. I don’t.

I buy the flowers.

Around town I walk, the buzz, getting ready for Shabbat. Last minute hurrying. I have no idea who I will be give them to but when I see her I know.

“Excuse me” I walk up to her “I need some help, could you hold these please.”

She is always, always surprised, A big smile I have, I’m not a small guy. The flowers now in her hands, her eyes I find “Shabbat Shalom” I say, I walk away.

I don’t engage, I don’t look back, I walk away with a big smile, a warm heart and a full soul

Yes, Shabbat Shalom, that it is.

Flowers Ungiven Have No Breath, by Zaq Harrison

The white lilies stick out, they always do in the bucket.

Friday afternoon, Shabbat around the corner, streets are busy with the quiet hanging like the summer heat.

The white lilies stick out, in my hand they always do.

I saw them, my hand twitched. How much? Why ask? I paid.

Friday afternoon flowers, rushing everything, this is not the first Friday night we’ve ever had.

The white lilies stuck out as they always do. I have my favorites; to every father a favorite child.

White lilies with their brothers the purple irises, not to forget the cousin, a bird of paradise.

That comfort only a family brings. In my hands, Comfort in my hands I find.

Never for me, always for her. She’s never for me, that’s just the way it is.

Friday afternoon, Shabbat around the corner, the streets with their quiet hanging like the summer heat.

Like the flowers that grow new again and again in my hands: the white lilies, the purple irises, and a bird of paradise.

I hold them but they’re never mine. Destined to be held, no one to give them to, to hold for my hands only.

To give or to breathe, to breathe is to take—I ask to what end? To give is life itself.

How do I give a meadow with no flowers?

The flowers ungiven have no breath.

Her eyes, unknown to me, meet mine, taken from the first snow. The weathered face and the tired legs vanish with now the eyes of a young woman.

There are no words; eyes that move mountains have no spoken language.

The white lilies with their brothers the purple irises, the cousin a bird of paradise, in her hands they are now.

A lovely smile, a touch of blush on her weathered face: white lilies, purple irises, and a bird of paradise.

Meant for another, she cares not, counting down the twilights, no time in choosing a favorite child.