Season of the Vulnerable

We are never so vulnerable as when we love.
Sigmund Freud

 

 

She reached for the cup the bronze one with turtles and seaweed cast in bronze it was heavy and meant to be something she didn’t understand but she knew what she wanted it to be she went about making it so arranging her life the bronze cup to be used the way she saw fit leaving no room for surprise or possibilities as she trogged along building and devising and planning what that cup would hold when it would hold it who would see it all perfect and just right she forgot about love and vulnerability and the cup sat without purpose unused without hope after all she planned hoped devised slipped into the ether she was left alone cup in hand empty in the rain filling the cup just so at her feet blossoms on long thin stems poked up through the concrete bobbled open ruffle petals in soft hues of peach scented with perfume of new beginnings offering themselves to her and her cup she kneeled in honor of the loving gift glowing with sun reaching to pluck each blossom as her own stopping just as the rain did quite suddenly and without expectation¬† she¬† poured the rainwater from the cup making room being open vulnerable she learned to love herself she was enough

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