Honeysuckle

The spring winds have long since ceased as the scorching rays of the summer sun shines throughout the valley. Flowers amass in droves around us, each with their scents to intoxicate me. An aphrodisiac invented by Himeros to ensnare the mind with his tightly wrapped roots, cradling it so softly yet granting a sugary inebriated state washed in the colors of a promise witnessed by both beast and man alike. The sweetest of which is the honeysuckle, a bright but overlooked flower that holds nectar so sweet. The petals brush against my lips so softly, syrupy words fill my mind as its river flows within my mouth, nourishing the heart with glee. A giddiness that was long thought lost in the past entangled upon the thorns of the rose. Its long entangled vines wrap around me and shield me from the harsh rays of the sun. I find my body beginning to tense, but I do not struggle—the leaves of the flower brush softly against my face, gifting comfort. The vines run across my sides as soft laughter escapes my lips. Is such a flower deserved by someone so reprehensible as I? Perhaps this is the sign of the tides pulling back, allowing a breath before the inevitable flood. Perhaps it is ignorance to believe that this is a sign of humanity being able to achieve Eden. Yet, as I consume the honeysuckles ambrosia, I find the inhibitions once harbored melt away like the wintery tundra in the summer's unending light. So perhaps this is an admission of surrender, surrendering the thorns that guard what little petals I hold tightly to in allowing a bloom of hope to once again fill my garden with new flora. To allow the lavender to grow amongst the chrysanthemum and accept submission to sleep amongst the gentle breeze as I dream so sweetly of the fresh aroma that now fills my garden. My sweet, beautiful honeysuckle.

Photo by Janeson Keeley on Unsplash