The man with flowers in his hands (Part 2)

By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

I still don’t know who he is. He does not seem to be the talking kind. He seemed to just focus on looking at the blooms and in making a choice on what flowers to pick in the neighborhood. I would have willingly given him a gumamela (hibiscus) if he asked for it. But he did not look at me. I have a feeling he wanted to take them when I am not looking. The problem is, I am always looking at the exact time he passes by.

He used to be a swirling energy drawing the flowers in the palm of his hands. They were willing to be cut from the branches to continue their lives as he walked, even when, he would almost always throw them along the way in a green trash can along Maningning Street.

I miss him, the man with flowers in his hands. The last time I saw him was in May, when most of the flowers bloomed. He has not walked in a long time, and for that, the flowers he was intending to pick may have missed him too.

Today, I almost did not recognize him. He was frail and can hardly manage a step. He was walking with two young men, one holding an umbrella for him, the other holding him by his elbows. No flowers in his hands.

On his way back, I had a close look in his eyes, he was staring in space. I tried to find the radiance there, but found no desire to even look at the flowers, let alone pick any one of them. I felt the blooms burst in tears.

 

Flowering

I suppose, I have always seen you
with suspicious eyes
on a bed of flowers
in bed with flowers

 

I see you looking at me
as part of a leaf, or a tree
or a curious outgrowth

of the benevolent soil

nevertheless, I smelled you

before you stepped in the garden

and I have kissed your hand

before you even thought to pick

 

as we run away

I have led you to a dance

to the symphony of exotic scents,

and you got lost in the streets,

where I planted desire.

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