For lack of exact words, let me say that I feel gray clouds and yellow flowers. While I am rejoicing in the blossoming of Imelda grass, I am lamenting the darkening of clouds. I am the contrast. I am in between. Or I am the clouds. I feel sad about the fact that I have to let go of the water I’ve been keeping for a long time. Or I am the flowers. I feel happy about fact that the water in the clouds is now what it has been longing to be: the rain. Or, perhaps, I am the rain. You see, I don’t exactly know what to feel about it.
But then again I realize that this is not about me.
Be the clouds, for I will always look up to you. Be the rain, for I will always enjoy your shower, your pouring. Be the flowers, for I will always find time to gaze at the sublime simplicity of your blooming. Without you, I will wander lonely as a cloud. But these flowers are my golden daffodils. My memory of them is where time and space do not exist. I will always remember you in them.