Heartburn More Condition_symptoms

Violets

Nothing but a bunch of pale purple,
a bunch of these flowers small and almost bland
and a child playing in the garden ...

That day, in February and there, not so long ago and still lost like all other days of his life that does its senses ever, a brief moment, they have me uncluttered view.

Flowers among the most insignificant and most hidden. Minute. At the edge of blandness. Born of earth loosened by the last snows of winter. And how, if frail, can they only appear out of the ground, stand?

In the liturgy of the year, more constant, slightly more eternal than the other, which also discards, they have their place as the prime time in the day of seclusion. A time when we can not speak up. To hear them, we must move from the shadows. Being out of nightmares. Disposed of his strips.
Or is it not rather that their view we help?

"I do not pluck the flowers" says the Bride the Spiritual Canticle: this means that it will refuse some brief joy for another, deemed highest and more durable. This refusal does not prevent the flowers, even incueillies, were named in the poem, they are present as a limpid beauty scattered beyond which we surely could not go without having first loved .

Violets

Arrows point to the soft, incapable of poison.

(Erase all the mistakes, all the detours, all kinds of destruction, leaving only the small, fragile these arrows there, unchecked a dark corner in late winter.)

The tiny, which opens a path that makes its way, but nothing more. As if we needed something else, which I was never given, to go beyond.

Frayeuses way, flavored, but too frail to it does not need the relay in the dark and cold.

Philippe Jaccottet
And Nevertheless