but the flowers flowers flowers are in my heart salt and rope gulls stitching the grey to the grey the gangway petals ride the ballast stems sway letting the horn sound its long iron vow-el whatever sails whatever stays the flowers flowers flowers are in my way and the heart, that port the receiver behind curtains knows the curls a rustling of con-sonant but the flowers flowers flowers are in my heart the blood oxygenated (thanks God for that) things were alive when we thought they were dead the heart, they say, sits on the left and the left side is called port and any gardener will tell you to cut the dead word-ly heads is to make the stem go on so cut, cut the flowers flowers flowers are in my port
My poetry book “The Garden Out of Dust”
There's something profoundly beautiful about the way you weave flowers, the heart, and the persistence of life together. It feels like a reminder that not everything we consider dead has truly ceased to exist. Some things simply continue living in forms we haven't learned to recognize yet. Beautifully written.
Anna, I liked how you brought the sea, the flowers, and the heart together. That idea of the heart being a port made me think about all the things we carry within us, even after they've changed or disappeared from our lives. And the image of cutting away the dead flowers caught my attention. Sometimes we hold on to things because we're afraid of losing them completely, when perhaps letting something go is also a way of allowing something else to grow.