Water Lilies, and the Patience of Still Water
A pond keeps no schedule but its own; the flowers open when the light is ready.
The leaves arrive first — flat green plates laid across the water, each cut with a single slit like a closed eye. They hold rain in shallow beads and let the wind pass without much comment. Before any flower shows, the pond has already arranged itself into a floor you could almost walk on.
The blooms keep unhurried hours. They open toward the middle of the morning and fold again by dusk, indifferent to whoever came to watch. A camera that waits catches the half-open ones, petals still deciding, the water beneath them so still it doubles the sky. Nothing here rewards a fast shutter; the whole scene is built for holding a breath.
On a screen the pond does something useful — it refuses to hurry you. The green stays cool, the pink stays quiet, the reflection keeps its edges soft. It is a wallpaper that asks for nothing, which is probably why you keep leaving it there.
