A touch a love

Unspoken words drifting over the chairs, down the hall and lost in that little crevice between the winter gloves and the no names homemade knot scarf.
Flowers taken before their prime are then subjected to a cold and sterile environment, bound by rubber-bands and hard plastic only to be displayed among other words, poems even short stories. Each longing to find there way to the open ears. Set in a perpetual competition of harsh judging eyes and never-ending florescent lights. Flowers envision the joy of being the object of a proposal, or the object of forgiveness. Becoming a smothered beauty between two bodies separated by the cavern of dying words that had had created a grand expanse. Some stories will remain untold, spending each moment until the last petal falls under the harsh unloving frozen world. Becoming only then a story and a nurturing for the ground to which it is placed. Some will be marked down in hopes to be separated from the harsh plastic and rubber binds before the ears are shut to the multitude of words alive and there. They have beauty to share, poems to speak, stories to unfold, each petal, stem and piston with a desire to display its knowledge for the tender recipient with a touch of love. My words drifted over the chairs, wandered down the hallway and got lost in that little crevice between the winter gloves and the no names homemade knot scarf, then the still small voice that finds itself reaching out from all directions had me on my knees gathering petals and placing them in a vessel as to sit and listen, just listen. The still small voice has poetry to share, affirmations, and with that a touch of love.