Flowers By: Kaela Burke

Roses

cloyingly sweet, prickly thorns and blood red petals.

An act of assertion, dominance.

Roses

Southern magnolias

Elegant, cream colored petals and a peachy soft heart

A georgia bell, traditional and polite

Southern magnolias

Chrysanthemums

Tiny prickly sprouts covering the land in a carpet of canary yellow

Wildflower, bold and ambiguous - the first sign of spring

Chrysanthemums

Hydrangeas

Clusters of little petals, clouds of cotton candy blue and pink

Light and easygoing, laughter like windchimes

Hydrangeas

Lotuses

Curved magenta petals bowing towards a golden center

Enigma, cunning and attractive

Lotuses

Marigolds

Little orange lovelies, tawny roots fading into flamy sunset

Bright, mischievous. A twinkling eye

Marigolds

This was a sketch I did during Russian class a few weeks ago, but it’s significance to me far exceeds the circumstances of its conception. Poetry to me is like breathing, like dropping off your backpack after carrying it around all day. Writing is like lifting a weight off my shoulders, a sigh of relief because what’s more peaceful, more validating and reassuring than expressing oneself, than getting a point across, and to be able to do that in a creative fashion is a gift, all of it. Poetry in and of itself is a gift, an opportunity to express yourself, get the weight off your shoulders. This was a ten minute verbal doodle, but it cleared my head, let me take a breath during what was a very stressful day in a very stressful week before winter break. Poetry is everything to me because it’s nothing, it’s floating, inconsequential. Poetry is freedom, and like the air I keep relating it to, I couldn’t live without it.