There was something feminine about blossoms.
Looking up now and speaking gently of blue skies…
Opening in light, and uncontaminated hope.
Baring their souls to the magic potion which they did not understand,
but which longed to touch their core.
Knowing it was only this substance that could make chemistry explode inside of them.
For they knew no other way…
Waiting in purity, only magic and time could transform them into spheres of nourishment, where nature makes and governs all rules that rest on the pendulums of spring.
Mother Nature looked on tenderly,
Smiling at her earthly friends with colourful delight;
For they did not need to understand this mystery for it to exist.
A chorus of tiny flowers
sang words By Gibran –
swaying to rhythms
of their hearts, minds and hands;
“And when you crush an apple with your teeth, say to it in your heart:
Your seeds shall live in my body,
And the buds of your tomorrow shall blossom in my heart,
And your fragrance shall be my breath,
And together we shall rejoice through all the seasons.”
— Kahlil Gibran
And where was Newton? Somewhere between trying to measure light and calculate the existence of “pull” in numbers etched in black and white.