If I must pick one, Marcus, then the white tuberose is nature’s only hedonistic indulgence, just so she can revel each night in the decadent magnificence of her own creation.
Her soft spot then…her weakness?
The only one! Take away that flower and you have immeasurable beauty maybe, even a certain delicacy, maybe unimaginable fragrance, but no magic. That one creation is a delicious melancholy that picks at a single string in the moonlight, explaining in soft iambic rhyme why you exist in that moment, in that fragment of space, how you two-step perfectly with eternity.
Like a poem. The poem. Maybe we all have a poem like that. The one we are secretly proud of.
Even if it hasn’t been written yet.
that was it, that loud flap of wings,
the mynahs arguing again
with the wind