I had never noticed it before: nature’s attempt at architecture, her silken hands spinning a column of flowers that grew in a tinted cloud.
A tower that mocked gravity’s dour classroom, it broke rules, growing effervescent and high. It took root in the cement, leaning into the building like a frail buttress sustaining a cathedral with nothing more than a cacophony of petals.
It climbs like a child, with exploratory, reaching fingers. It crawls over wall and towards window, its pastel fragrance waiting outside to be announced – an invisible, scented calling card.
Its filigreed limbs reached across the roof – curling towards the sky, waiting for the bronzed droplets of light to fall. Strengthened by the bright nutrition, they will be encouraged to grow for the duration of the summer. The green cradle will continue to embrace the house in its complex grip.
Yet when Autumn comes – riding an equinox across the sky’s astrological arch – the sun will begin to recede. It will bequeath its precious time to the moon, who has waited like a jealous mistress behind the twilight. With daylight’s retreat, the flowering plants suffer in their sad gardens. Their heads droop as they weep away their colors in a seasonal grief.
What of the taunting tower then? It will weaken and crumble – petals will shrivel and fall like discarded, sepia messages; leaves will twist in their atrophy. And then the owner of the house will come out one afternoon to tear down the brave efforts of the growing time, initiating a dying harvest.
Yet for all its muscular gaiety, for all its blossoming power, I had never noticed the spinning column before. Now, each evening I make sure I stop to admire its exquisite recklessness. And in the winter I will stop to remember the testament of the once-warm communication between earth and sun; a bridge that dared to grow into the welcoming sky.