It was the best day of the year for tulips, a Saturday in mid-April as they were peeking, so we naively left at 9 in the morning thinking we were beating the traffic, only to find that it had beaten us. For two hours we sat in it, from 10 to 12, wondering if we would ever get to park, patiently willing our bladders to stay strong, shameful about participating with other polluters idling in the presence of nature, all for a short glimpse at one of her great splendors.
When we got there, we wondered if it would be worth the boredom, the cramped spaces, the putrid exhaust, as crowds gathered at the entrance, more lines, more people waiting to ascend the escalator before the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Then we were inside, where heaven opened her gates, angels lifted us on prisms of photographs bending to the ground where sky meets petal. Agape we stood, mesmerized by their colors, running on thirst and only wanting fragrance, pearly tendrils of joy anchoring them to the ground, to become immortalized on someone's social media feed. They were purple, they were red, pink, orange, white, yellow, and blue, radiant bands of beauty where light surrendered to the stalwart Earth, begging it to capture its latent forms, the infinite potential of arranged color, a palette for the artist in the sky who sings, be fruitful and multiply.
Soft as the April snow they waved in the wind, inviting us to plant memories in the garden, ephemeral lives for ephemeral smiles that crystallized into icicles for the light's coronation.
When we got there, we wondered if it would be worth the boredom, the cramped spaces, the putrid exhaust, as crowds gathered at the entrance, more lines, more people waiting to ascend the escalator before the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Then we were inside, where heaven opened her gates, angels lifted us on prisms of photographs bending to the ground where sky meets petal. Agape we stood, mesmerized by their colors, running on thirst and only wanting fragrance, pearly tendrils of joy anchoring them to the ground, to become immortalized on someone's social media feed. They were purple, they were red, pink, orange, white, yellow, and blue, radiant bands of beauty where light surrendered to the stalwart Earth, begging it to capture its latent forms, the infinite potential of arranged color, a palette for the artist in the sky who sings, be fruitful and multiply.
Soft as the April snow they waved in the wind, inviting us to plant memories in the garden, ephemeral lives for ephemeral smiles that crystallized into icicles for the light's coronation.
There are places like this, far beyond and in between years that echo through cathedral's agleam, intent on bearing witness to the supreme creations that glitter the globe in altars of wonder. It was worth it, we said, it always is, as longevity in suffering is the price for joy's brevity.
