I didn't know the water
but I planted words at its edge...
the words said what they said, then I left
I kept nothing but the rhythm, the rhythm in its wave.
On the path to the sky
the sky of my song
I was the daughter of the wind, traveling and residing
among the people of the sea...
One day, I heard the words which I planted at the edge of the water speaking
I felt the pulse of the alphabet in the echo
I forgot who I was so that I could be...
Now I return from a window, looking out in two directions
can I return as I left?
only knowing that the words I planted had grown into trees.
It is Autumn.
In Greek anemōnē means "daughter of the wind", The name "windflower" is used for the whole genus as well as the wood anemone.
Besides the "windflower", I love how the Canaanites called anemones, "the lover's wounds".
Aphrodite (Venus) said: "my grief for Adonis will be remembered forever, and every year will see, reenacted in ritual form, his death and my lamentation; and the blood of the hero will be transformed to a flower."
As she spoke, she sprinkled his blood with sweet nectar, which made it swell up, like a transparent bubble that rises from muck; and in no more than an hour a flower sprang out of that soil, blood red in its color, just like the flesh that lies underneath the tough rind of the seed-hiding pomegranate.
Brief is its season, for the winds from which it takes its name, the anemone, shake off those petals so lightly clinging and fated to perish.
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