In between

“Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.”

William Wordsworth

(the dried remains of a crepe myrtle / Julie Cook / 2015)

Somewhere in between birth and death resides the beautiful. . .
Small and fragile, ever so demure, it begins. . .
Slowly at first, yet laced with excited energy. . .fullness eventually falls into place . . .
Even daring. . .
Yet never to be confused with
Or self-centered
Determination sets the cycle into motion
There is no turning back, no stopping what has started

And just as quickly as it began. . .
It all begins to fade, to go away, to change, to depart. . .
Slowly and ever so slightly
A tinge of brown,
A wilted droop,
A loss of vibrancy
Life juices dry as everything begins
Dying. . .

All that remains is the dried shell
A stiff skeleton of what was
No fragrance
No softness
No tender touch
Just sticky

And so here we now sit. . .
Somewhere in between. . .
Waiting for the beautiful. . .