One from the Vaults: In Search of Flowering Trees

Here's a piece from an old email that some of you may have received from Romania back in 1997. It's kinda nice, kinda melodramatic and depressed, kinda Stu. I remember the passion of those Romanian dusks and the heartbreaking beauty of those trees in the purple darkness. Don't know if I've felt beauty like that, so comprehensive and deep, since then.

{note to bobtaco: see, i was crying 9 years ago as well!}

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I was asked about the flowers in Romania,

and as Spring finally decides to commit fully

(after six weeks of cold rain sun rain no-rain)

this city which I described as so drab and colorless

bursts into life.

Tiny, vibrant, fragrant love.

In the flower market just across the street,

I have seen Gerbera daisies in colours that I never dreamed of.

Lavender-grey-blue. Ocean-green too rich to be real.

I roamed the aisles sticking my face into every bunch

to be sure that they weren't fake.

I had found a cloth Lily in a cemetary.

what are the Dead to do with a flower that won't decay into dust?

In every square,

every plot of once sparse grass,

delicate faces so many shapes

that the air takes on a tint,

the dull buildings reflect the hue

and a slight song of joy pries its way into the souls of Buzau.

Lying in a field of golden splendor,

eye to eye with the bees

as diligently engaged as I was deliciously indolent,

rembering the sun that I left

ages past.

How to tell of the flowering trees?

With every wind's whisper,

a summer snow in purple and white

and a scent I can only describe as home.

Belonging, familiarity, comfort.

Littering the earth,

outlining the sky

tiny-spired pinwheels

fluttering

teasing my nose

adorning my hair.

I walked through the park in twilight,

In search of a path through a tunnel of flowering trees.

I had been there before,

warned of the briefness

the retreat of their exhibition.

Bats tranversed the white-glowing sky,

Lovers strolled through strange frog laughter.

in the filthy pond they sound like ducks

chuckling at the lightness of all

chuckling at the rebirth of Spirit.

And I wander in search of flowering trees.

Once again on the path where I had passed them

three dusks ago.

Yesterday's cold rain had stolen my blooms

Verdant glowing twilight but not enough.

Seeking a place to sit

Pages open to record my sadness

if no trees, then lines to etch them.

Reeling bats, rain cross the page,

not enough for flowers to bloom,

this struggle with intention,

no realization.

So I pack it away

rising in despair

seven steps, nine

it flickers in the growing gloom,

a lone tree bedecked with yellow blossoms.

I take one to my own,

turning down another path.

Trembling in a power to overwhelming.

the brutality of my failure at craft

the ruthless wonder of nature's retort.

eyes clench, i hold myself

and stagger.

Then I have arrived

As if never lost.

My flowering path,

glowing white in the urgent twilight,

washing out the green and gloom,

a respite, a belonging.

I bury my face in the branches

hot rain pours from my eyes.

scraped cheeks and tongue tastes

breathing my mother,

enveloped by my lover,

in search of flowering trees,

crying desperately in the park as night settles in



goodnight friends.

love,

stuart