Perhaps we see a rose as red, yet the one color in which the
eye sees it dressed is the very color the rose rejects – and much remains
hidden in the solitude of each silken pinwheel grown thick with fragrance where
unseen colors continue to dwell.
Maybe that is best, to allow the center its private inward
furl--a destination navigated most unbiased by child, dreamer, painter before
assuming palette. How tightly each petal grips the common stem. How
equally pleasing: plucked petal and its perfect swath around three sides of
human thumb.
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