where flowers grow without permission

I am the link, between past and present, The voice of grief, the spirit of gratitude. I do not belong where I was born, I was the wrong one. But here, in the wild, the free, Where flowers grow without permission. Where meerkats are allowed to live. I am. To dare to know grief is to have depth. It is beautiful when the past is remembered and honored, they said. You have become modern – lasting is in, I managed to say. Spinning in the circle, no beginning, no end, Past, present, future – see them bleed and blend. The word permanent is your garden, The shadow becomes my place, feminist shirt, boots with heels. I straighten my back, lift my gaze, take my place. Primitivo and Zinfandel – voice in glass, Root and rebellion bound in wine. Sensing with the dervishes. Same DNA. I steer chaos, driving as rebellion against the system’s tightening bonds. Tree trunks fall, half-rotten, damp holes full of life, Houseleeks grow quietly, stone roses spreading. Growing almost from nothing. Made of the nothing we take for granted. Plants without photos. Without likes. Baking a cake without posting it. Why should I bake then? We are small, trivial things, insects in the ear of the world. “Listen, there is a voice, that doesn’t use words – listen”. Spinning in the circle, no beginning, no end, Past, present, future – see them bleed and blend. We live in the echo, and the echo is everything. Did you remember to say thank you? Everything falls back to earth, to the original. Everything falls back... To the original.