Noticing: A Writing Prompt

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We walk through life wrapped up in our heads, in our responsibilities, our expectations, our work, we don’t take the time to stop and notice. We don’t notice the lone blade of grass dancing in the wind or the way a maple leaf waves hello as the wind blows. We are too busy to notice the mourning doves scourging for loose bird seed or the squirrel fussing from a tree branch. We don’t notice the howl of a wintry wind or the craters in an October supermoon. We don’t notice the lavenders and pinks of the sky during a sunset. Nor the darkening of the sky and the awakening of the stars. We are all too busy with our plans, our to-do lists or private thoughts. I wonder would any of that matter if we took a minute or two to sit idle and notice the passing of time spent doing, doing, doing and not being.

June Bloom: A Gotham Writers Prompt

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On June 1st a flower was born.  Was it a rose? A carnation? No, nothing as fancy as that.  She was a wildflower with a sturdy stalk, growing in the weeds of the city.  You know, the kind young children would pick and arrange and present as gifts to their moms or their childhood crushes.  The earth mother tried to nurture her and show her the way, but she was a wild child, destined for the hard life.

Her petals were fragile.  She had long learned to hide their fragility.  Turning her face to the sun for nourishment and hanging her head in the rain, using the droplets to disguise her tears.  Always showy, she smiled upon those around her, often offering an ear for their problems and a hug to share in their pain. Who would share her pain?  No one.

She was stoic as the storms tried to beat her down. Her petals became tattered in places, but her heart remained steady.  She was fertilized by a myriad of pollinators.  Some stole from her, her kindness. Others, gently, tried to soothe.  All left their marks. Can you see her?

There she stands, before a backdrop of dilapidated buildings, in the midst of a jungle of concrete blocks and broken glass, discarded beer bottles and crushed cans. Who has the courage to walk through the weeds to take her hand, to share and stand in her pain? Who has the courage.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash