The older I get the more I trust in the law according to which the rose and the lily bloom.
Still more labyrinthine buds the rose.
I watched a rose-bud very long Brought on by dew and sun and shower, Waiting to see the perfect flower: Then when I thought it should be strong It opened at the matin hour And fell at even-song.
One of the joys our technological civilization has lost is the excitement with which seasonal flowers and fruits were welcomed; the first daffodil, strawberry or cherry are now things of the past, along with their precious moment of arrival. Even the tangerine -- now a satsuma or clementine -- appears de-pipped months before Christmas.
Poetic justice, poetic justice.. if I told you that a flower bloom in a dark room would you trust it. I mean I write poems in these songs.
Come up, April, though the valley, / In your robes of beauty drest, / Come and wake your flowery children / From their wintry beds of rest.
Spring, when the earth tilts closer to the sun, runs a strict timetable of flowers.
If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour?
I've been filming time lapse flowers continuously, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, for 35 years. To watch them move is a dance I will never get tired of. Their sensual beauty immerses us with color, smell, taste and touch.
The blooming of a flower is, in my mind, not a miracle. It's something that we can understand on the basis of molecular biology these days.
