Vita Sackville-West's writing tower at Sissinghurst
I gaze in to this photo of Vita Sackville-West’s writing tower at Sissinghurst and where my spirit lands is on the spectral array in the fresh flowers kept on the central table. The calm tones and tomes encircling the flowers protect the ephemeral blasts of potential. I am so happy the flowers are there. What a ritual of enjoyment to bring them in to the tower where putting down her words, by pen and ink, that may be read in the future. A testament. While the flowers, glorious for a day or two, have lived to beguile so briefly. Except…here is a photograph I peer in to. I can imagine whatever I want of her life, of this room, of the scent and actual colors of the flowers in the castle tower. This photo, digitized, even further dispersed, ethereal and transported in to my imagination and labyrinth of wonder-lust.
I don’t live in a castle, but towers are appearing. Terribly tall towers that I bring little shrines in to and tiny towers that I will carry on with the old spirits.
Where will I land? Am I the flowers? Can I be so many colors, please?