POINSETTIA: A PROMISING BLOOM

A Promising Bloom JOYCE SHEENA ALYSSA PAJO Spring blossoms open from green carpet to heaven’s boughs, revealing one’s soft heart within. In the spring, there are vestiges of frigidity, yet also the promise of warm summer days ahead. From the mud come fl owers as golden as sunshine, as fl uid as rain. They come at fi rst in ones and twos, yet soon they are the most buoyant of crowds, happily dancing in the wind. Along the course, long garden was bare. The rain came and the sunshine too, but without the gentle spring heat; nothing grew, not even the weeds. As the fl owers to one’s own beauty; oneself is blind, yet it is only in the presence of such sun-given nectar that all ecosystems thrive. What was only green a week before has become a garland of the most vibrant blooms. They are colors to weave dreams from, as soft and gay as any silk giving birth to poinsettias that grow where one dwells. These tenacious blossoms of the city streets, born to take whatever comes away and make beauty of it until one comes to admire them. There are times one feels that poinsettias are nature’s graffi ti, that chaotic rebellious element cheering them on. No more the bare wands that told of coldness’ magic, here come the green fl ags, the parade of spring in bright bloom. The chorus of the skies has once again called forth the promise of the earth and sunshine combined. These plants will be a developing photograph with colors deepening with the richness of the season. The rain washes warmer over each face, a freshness to open each budding smile. Poinsettias that had been a tight bud only days ago had begun to open, already had a deeper blush of pink. This season should still be in force but already spring has pushed it back to moderate temperatures and the kind of gentle breeze one does not notice unless he stops and is present in the moment. It is only through oneself stretched out his fi ngers to touch the silky red petals, they were cooler than he had expected. He tried to open it faster, to see the beauty he knew was inside. But nature has its way, its timing, and he was not ready yet. A few more days of warmth and it would bloom. One could never see plants too many times, as well as one can never tire of their sweet fragrance. Each plant is a delicate bloom, no matter if it is a formal garden or a wasteland. Their petals are delicate works of art and their hues serve as remedy for one’s soul. The city folks spend thousands replacing them along the streets and as soon as they become brown more are brought in. There is something about their beauty that one needs for his whole being, to be fully human, one wonders if we’re all a bit like that. Without the dazzling grace of poinsettias of poinsettias this Christmas, it would only be concrete, thus one thinks the drop in temperature would just freeze one’s was bare. The rain came and the sunshine too, but without the gentle spring heat; nothing grew, not even the weeds. the presence of such sun-given nectar that all ecosystems thrive. What was only green a week before has become a garland of the most vibrant blooms. They are colors to weave dreams from, as soft and gay as any silk giving birth to poinsettias that grow where one dwells. These tenacious blossoms of the city streets, born to take whatever comes away and make beauty of it until one comes to admire them. chaotic rebellious element cheering them on. No more the bare wands that told of coldness’ magic, here come the green fl ags, the parade of spring in bright bloom. The chorus of the skies has once again called forth the promise of the earth and sunshine combined. These plants will be a developing photograph with colors deepening with the richness of the season. The rain washes warmer over each face, a freshness to open each budding smile. already had a deeper blush of pink. This season should still be in force but already spring has pushed it back to moderate temperatures and the kind of gentle breeze one does not notice unless he stops and is present in the moment. It is only through oneself stretched out his fi ngers to touch the silky red petals, they were cooler than he had expected. He tried to open it faster, to see the beauty he knew was inside. But nature has its way, its timing, and he was not ready yet. A few more days of warmth and it would bloom. tire of their sweet fragrance. Each plant is a delicate bloom, no matter if it is a formal garden or a wasteland. Their petals are delicate works of art and their hues serve as remedy for one’s soul. The city folks spend thousands replacing them along the streets and as soon as they become heart. The previously denuded branches off ered their wands of tight green bud to the brilliant rays of spring. The wind had lost its bite, it had become ambient, congenial, blowing branches and tousling the hair of pedestrians - but no longer stealing their warmth. Hence, from the gardens waved the precocious reddish bloom of the poinsettia. The only clouds were fl uff y, white and quite dispersed, there would be no rain today. They just grew as if the slumbering earth had dreamt them during the cold days. The petals were the bright confetti of the summer months, grown from the sweetest of buds to open with such confi dence under the warm sun. However, a poinsettia leaf may be temporary in each cold weather season, yet never withers and remains eternal in the memory of love, enough to span in promising ages.

The brightness of the day brought a new vivid essence to the hues of the ordinary. It was the lambent eff ulgence of a fresh page in the summer sun, the kind that brought a smile even as I let my eyes rest a moment. It was the sort of brightness that kindled something beautiful within, and at the same time stirred a connection with the nature around. It was one of those days wherein the soul was so vibrant, ‘til it began to merge with every living thing, radiating, and resonating.

As I spoke in nuance, a bounty for the bees came in the shape of this season’s blooms. There is a fl owing of the soul in that youthful silhouette wherein night has once again robbed her of the daytime colors. Her silhouetted feet graced the ground like new petals on grass, soft and delicate. Yet without the light of the sun, she was only an unfulfi lled promise to her daytime beauty, fl owing like well–loved monochrome photographs spun to life. Thus, she has grown fi nesse in every street crack and verge, the nature-planted seeds that were ready to parade their colors upon that fi rst warm-kiss of hers. Nonetheless, sun-rays came as nature’s easel, giving brilliant color to what was hidden even under the passing starlit night; vividly signifying the upcoming essence of Christmas.

With great intent, my fi rm arms served as the wrapping, hence, she was the gift I once pursued. We then leave the plastic upon its cold shelf and instead fi nd peace within ourselves this season. In the quiet moment, Christmas Eve was a tiny fl ower caressed upon a gentle palm, deftly and softly. Amid all those glitters, her silhouette spoke volumes in the silence, dancing as if her soul needed to gleam in jubilation. I have always viewed her as a story of the innermost pages of my soul, wherein she served as the poetry that bonded all that was loved.

Christmas has always been so special, for it oversaw the way she became devoted and aff ectionate to oneself. Along the seafront was every color that could tumble from a box of pastels. In the sunlight, they were soft no matter how bright the light became, and always just as pleasing as the gelato that sat in our waffl e cones. The hues seen upon the scenery were that bit more beautiful, like God had polished the world anew. And how could we resent those blessed drops? For with them came the greenery, the gay fl owers and every other bit of life we adored. She then took the time to see souls and their level of wellness or need.

Thus, she rested in the quiet moment to observe what is rather than allowing the business of the world to put the ones she loved into the background noise. I stopped, and started to wonder why she was so gentle, but then I remembered that she was a woman of solitude. The pain of loneliness gives way to a calm confi dence, a self-reliance and a realization that when she can take good care of herself, the same goes to others. She was one of those whose wills are oftentimes secured within those unhealed victims of trauma, they suff er from emotional fl ooding and from an inability to see their own worth. They are a blessing bestowed upon this cruelty, yet they are rarely aware of their own fragility and vulnerability.

This season comes to off er her, the one I love, into clear defi nition and accept her emotions “as is.” For Christmas day, I have an opportunity to reset as a strong bond that supports her in every way possible. Amid the bounty of the red berries nature has brought, the brightness that warms each blessed day, comes as a way of healing. Above all it is a night to dwell on what love is upon my endearing, Fiona.

Christmas sparks healing in both directions, calling to the emotions and the higher mind all at once. Hence, black lacy ribbons woven through rows of eyelets were pulled with a steady grace until what was once an open wound was an almost invisible scar of white.

JOYCE SHEENA ALYSSA PAJO