And near it oncea freesia grew—soft as a promisenobody knew. I carried that momentlike hidden light—a bloom that livedoutside of sight. Perhaps I’ll recall itin precipice of pools,thinking of loveand the ache it fuels. What We Choose to Keep Here, the poem becomes more intimate than ever. After learning that beauty does not need to […]
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Once, a red rosesprouted from the ground.No one was thereto turn around. No voice to praise it.No post to send.Just quiet beauty,without pretend. When No One Is Looking Here, the poem arrives at a quiet realization. After questioning worth (Part 6),after carrying the weight of being seen (Part 5),after moving through pain, belonging, and reflection—
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Tell me, my love—what is the worthof fragile linesI offer the world? The freesias leanin patient air,as if they knowwhy I am here. I search for crimson huesand their solemn glow—the quiet trutha lone heart knows. I want to stand in the grassand watch the sun rise,slow as a thoughtreturning twice. For years I stayed
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This trip grows heavy.Too heavy for show,for shining roomsand names I barely know. When Expression Meets Exposure Here, the poem begins to resist. After moving through reflection, belonging, witnessing, and inner ache,it arrives at something more external— the idea of being seen. And with it,the weight that follows. In the earlier parts, writing felt intimate.A
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What crawls beneath these ribsthat should not be?A quiet ache,like a rising sea. Pain comes in waves—soft, yet slow—enough to haltwhere feet would go. The Turning Inward Here, the poem shifts again. The landscape disappears. The stillness remains—but it changes form. What once existed outside—fields, stones, quiet spaces—now moves inward. Into the body.Into something felt,
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A field of freesias,pale and near—the kind of placethat understands a tear. I may leave soon,but not beforeI ask my musewhat makes my core. A Quiet Landscape This part of the poem arrives in stillness. A field of freesias is not described with movement or narrative expansion. Instead, it is placed before the reader
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Take me, please,to the poets’ tombs.Let me wanderamong quiet stones. This section marks a shift in the poem. From inward reflection, the speaker—I—begins to move outward. Not into the world of the living, but into a space shaped by those who came before. It is not a literal place, but something imagined, symbolic, and deeply
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Isn’t it true—the poems I writecircle slowlyback to me? Where Poems Return There is a quiet honesty in this line—one that many writers feel but rarely say out loud. At first, writing feels like expression.A way to release thoughts, emotions, and experiences into something tangible. But over time, something shifts. The words begin to feel
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Where This Poem Began There are poems that are written to be seen. And then there are poems that are written because something inside refuses to stay quiet. The Freesias Will Know belongs to the latter. This piece did not begin with structure or intention. It began with a feeling—subtle, persistent, difficult to name. The
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If we could try, please drop by.I stood by the lake where he left me high and dry. This final section opens with a quiet invitation—a lingering wish to revisit what was left unresolved. Returning to the lake is not accidental. It is the same place where the pain first settled, where absence became real.
