White Carnations, Perception, and the World as it Is

Stick a white carnation in water mixed with some blue food coloring, and, slowly, the tips of its petals will take on a blue tinge. Eventually, the whole flower will start to take on a blue hue as the flower continues to drink that colorful water.

It’s transpiration or whatever (I did have to Google that), combined with what dye does by definition.

Today, thinking about flowers and dye and petal tips and tinges and hues, I began to wonder how different life would be if water had a color rather than being clear, like pure H₂O being rose-colored rather than colorless. With water being the building block of life on Earth, as well as a component of many nonliving things, how would things change?

Very likely that rose-colored water would give all of these things a rose-colored tint. You and I would be slightly pinker. Those white carnations would start off as a tiny bit reddish.

Photo by Samer Daboul on Pexels.com

Even the phrase rose-colored would take on a slightly different meaning. And because those roses would have this blush undertone in addition to any extra pigment they already have, it’s likely that “rose-colored” wouldn’t even be an apt name for the color of that water anymore.

The wildest part is that rose-colored water and a rose-colored world would be our normal. Most things would have a rosy hue from the day we were born to the day we die.

Some day, it would dawn on someone in this alternate reality that the world would be different if water were a different color. They might imagine life with pale green water. Maybe, if they were feeling extra existential, they might wonder how people would perceive everything if water were clear.

I wonder what it would be like to wonder that.

Two Elfchen on Morning

folded

new sheets

packaged in plastic

for torn bedding needs

replacement

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twittering

old birdsong

sparrow greets dawn

the drowsy world begins

awakening

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Photo by Lina Kivaka

Stuck

Two feet in two boots

sink in the muddy ground.

One comes loose with a loud

suction-y pop,

and globules of muck go flying.

To free one foot, the other

must press down,

forcing itself deeper into the

greedy, wet earth.

The freed foot strides forward

while the other remains where it was,

left behind,

more stuck than ever.

Then weight shifts onto the front foot,

as the other ankle wriggles.

The back leg strains to lift the foot, the boot,

to dislodge both

and continue the journey ever onward.

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Photo by Athena

Morus alba

Most white mulberry trees

actually bear purple fruit.

I learn facts from a TikTok video.

Sometimes, we don’t have all the information we need

when we make a decision

that trickles down through history.

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Photo by Engin Akyurt

Let It Roll

Let it roll, let it crumble,

let it tumble to the floor.

Let it teach, let it humble,

then let it wash away from shore.

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Photo by Dominika Roseclay

The Pet and the Feathered Thing

Low to the ground, the cat creeps
Toward the window,
Stalking.

Outside, the bird pecks at seed,
Its prey eyes darting,
Untrusting.

The golden-furred pet inches ever closer,
Operating on instinct,
Eager.

Their eyes meet for a single beat.
The cat’s body thuds against the glass.

Safe as ever, the feathered thing takes flight.

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featured photo by Lina Kivaka via Pexels

Refreshing

thunderstorms

bring precipitation

to the city

speckling sidewalks with raindrops

refreshing

urbanity

reset from

thunderous bustling streets

as people duck inside

transformed

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Photo by Alex Pham via Pexels

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My Words Might Fail

One day, when the moon is in the sky, I will reach out to touch it. I might hope for an embrace that it cannot reciprocate. I might stumble in its light. I might weep. I might struggle to move that insurmountable rock. I might try to replace it with other rock. I might lean against craggy walls, learning what every cliff face looks like from the bottom. I might hurt.

One day, when the sun is in the sky, I will tap my fingers on the dining table. The wood might maintain my prints. It might not. I might stare longingly out the window. My gaze might race to meet the horizon faster than my legs could ever run. I might lie down on the floor. I might rest. I might face my greatest fears. I’m not sure I yet know what those are.

One day, when the moon is in the sky, I might not be there to see it.

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featured photo by Dids via Pexels

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Smoke and Soot

Smoke and soot.

A candle left to burn for too long.

A campfire just waiting to become cold.

Unused logs.

Waiting for another winter.

Beige and brown and chopped.

A recently demolished treehouse,

now a childhood memory.

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Photo by Erik Mclean via Pexels

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Bonding Time

We pluck some of the seedling plants to make room for the others, and I tell you my hair has gotten too long.

You disagree.

You tell me that the book without words made you cry, and I tell you, “Me, too,” but without saying anything aloud.

Your hand rests on my thigh just above my knee as I drive. Your touch reminds me of sunshine.

I think I can smell the pulse under your skin. You show me how it’s right beneath the surface.

I make you promise to dance with me in the kitchen.

I tell you that I don’t know where to go from here.

You say, “Forward, of course.”

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Photo by Dua Chuot via Pexels

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