A field of freesias,
pale and near—
the kind of place
that understands a tear.

I may leave soon,
but not before
I ask my muse
what 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 like a held moment—quiet, fixed, and emotionally aware.

The freesias do not act.
They do not transform anything.

They simply exist as a presence that holds emotion without resistance.

In the writing process, this section felt like a pause—
a space where language softens and stops trying to explain everything.

The Field of Freesias (Author’s Note)

When I wrote this image of the freesias, I was thinking about the first book from the Red Freesia Series—The Truce Project, which I began when I was a teenager.

If I were to release my romance book series, it would start with the Red Freesia Series. It was one of the projects I invested deeply in.

Placing freesias in this poem felt like reconnecting with that version of myself—the one who was full of passion, excitement, and hope to finish what she started.

To me, freesias represent more than flowers. They feel like friends, readers, or people who understand and relate.

My favorite flower has always been freesia. Growing up, I began to understand the importance of friendship—especially the kind that feels genuine, safe, and reflective of who I am.

After recognizing belonging among the poets’ tombs—with its lilac and berry tones—I felt that freesias also had to exist within that same emotional space.

“Pale and Near”: Emotional Intimacy

The phrase “pale and near” is deliberately restrained.

“Pale” suggests gentleness and subtlety—an emotional atmosphere that does not overwhelm. It is softness without excess.

“Near” shifts the tone toward closeness.

This is not a distant symbolic field. It is emotionally accessible. It exists within reach, as if the feeling itself were beside me rather than observed from afar.

In the writing process, I wanted this space to feel immediate—something the reader does not analyze from a distance but quietly enters.

The Freesias: A Place That Understands Without Speaking

“The kind of place that understands a tear.”

This line shifts the freesias from an image to a witness.

They are no longer just part of a landscape—they become a presence that holds emotional truth without needing to define it.

The word “understands” here is important. It does not imply explanation. It implies recognition.

The freesias do not interpret emotion.
They do not try to change it.

They simply exist in a way that allows emotion to remain as it is.

In writing this, I was not trying to describe nature. I was trying to describe an emotional environment where vulnerability is not corrected, reduced, or hidden.

It is simply allowed.

The Freesia Witness (Author’s Note)

When I wrote this line, I was thinking about the kind of friendships I once had—relationships that felt one-sided or conditional.

The kind where you are expected to shrink yourself so others can shine.
The kind where jealousy replaces support.
The kind where connection feels more like control than understanding.

I long for a kind of presence like the freesias—
something that understands without needing to change me, mute me, or reshape me into something easier to accept.

Someone who can simply see and stay.

The Turning Line: “I may leave soon”

This is where the poem subtly shifts inward again.

“I may leave soon” introduces impermanence. It is not dramatic, but quiet—almost conversational.

There is a sense of transition, but not urgency.

In the writing process, this line reflects awareness of departure—not necessarily physical, but emotional or internal. A recognition that something is changing or ending.

But the poem does not end there.

Instead, it pauses before movement.

When I wrote “I may leave soon,” I was thinking about the impermanence of everything—life included.

In this lifetime, I want to achieve my goals:
publishing my books,
having them read,
and seeing them grow into something meaningful.

And in between all of that, there is something I truly wanted to understand…

The Muse and the Core

“But not before
I ask my muse
what makes my core.”

This is the turning point of the section.

Before leaving, there is a pause—not to escape, but to understand.

The “muse” here is not only inspiration. It becomes something closer to inner dialogue—an internal questioning of identity, purpose, and emotional foundation.

The phrase “what makes my core” shifts the poem into self-inquiry.

It is no longer about the landscape.
It is no longer only about witnessing emotion.

It becomes about understanding what remains when everything else is stripped away.

This was the most reflective moment of the piece. It was no longer about expression—it was about questioning what sustains expression itself.

When I asked “what makes my core,” I was thinking about my purpose in life.

What is all of this for?

My muse, in this moment, represents everything that makes me… me.

What makes my core?

This part of the poem does not end with resolution.

It ends with inquiry.

The freesias remain still, unchanged.
The speaker remains in transition—neither fully departing nor fully staying.

What remains is a question, not answered but held gently in place.

Sometimes, the deepest moments in writing are not when we explain ourselves—but when we ask what we are made of.

And in that moment,

even silence becomes part of the answer.