A Thousand Flowers on the Desk

The wood, a medium gold shade

Smooth like satin under the child’s hands

Large coils at each corner spiraling upward

Simultaneously stalwart and graceful

The sunlight from the library windows reflects the fine grain

The circles appear and disappear arbitrarily

Depending on how she tilts her head

Shimmering like golden threads woven on nature’s loom

The desk is a timeless legacy

Transporting a four-year-old to fictional lands

Known only in the ‘magic nation’ of her mind

Atop the desk sits an enormous ink blotter

Like a giant, flattened elephant’s’ ear

Nothing will mar the fine surface

No nicks, no marks, no evidence will be left here

It’s just a desk, a desk in a library

A wood-paneled library with a dark-green wool rug

A rug so soft and plush, she does not need to tiptoe

She can do cartwheels and still be as silent as a cat in the snow

Behind the desk is a throne

The patina of the dark brown leather, cracking at the edges

Like a See’s dark chocolate, maple walnut sweet

The seat feels smooth and firm under her fingertips

Climbing up into it, her excitement building

Like a whirling, spinning ride at the fair

She is almost there

Round and round, chubby hands grabbing the desk edge

Pushing off, gaining speed

Joyful cries in an octave so shrill it quiets barking dogs

Careful now, round and round, pulling her legs up

Her feet must not touch the desk

This could unleash monsters

There are rumors of children who have perished straight away

From the spinning throne she can see the fairy-like glass orb

Exquisite, its beauty is beguiling

Irresistible

The myriad of colorful designs encased in glass

So closely packed like rose petals in a bud

Microcosms of other worlds

Continually transformed by angles and light

Approaches, perspectives,

Positions and viewpoints

Millefiori - A thousand flowers

The paperweight sits alone on her father’s desk

A child’s delight

Many years have passed

Nothing is as it was

The man, the desk, the paperweight - gone now

Memories of the child are abundant and rich

Flooding, passing through, wafting, circling like smoke

Filling up the recesses, channels and caverns life left behind in her mind

To untangle them and single one out would take more effort than she cares to make

But sometimes, singularity intrudes on its own

A glass paperweight can be seen on that drive-in movie screen inside her head

Like a subliminal message to get popcorn at intermission

All at once she is snatched back in time

To a wood paneled library with a dark-green wool rug

To a time when she sat on her father’s lap and felt the heat of his love

To a time when the most complex thing in her life were dreams

Dreams she fashioned and cast with her ‘magic nation’

The creations spawned by the thousand flowers were fabled

Splendid and prolific tales, with castles and fairies

Horses that flew, a king, a queen, a shimmering knight

Her mind is lucid, her eyes glow bright

She is spinning round and round

Gaze deep into the Millefiori – can you see the child’s delight?