I find it difficult (I wanted to use the word impossible, but that seemed a little dramatic), no, impossible not to stop and gawk at the artistic mastery that flowers so naturally command. With the booming tone of a captain trying to be heard over the bombardments at the front lines, their colored petals shout “notice me!” – how could you not stop? (I quite enjoy the imagery of fields of flowers waging war against one another, vying for the victory that is the attention of random passersby – but I will restrain myself from creating such a scene, for now). So there I was, walking with the purpose (most people in Boston walk with a purpose, so here I am, trying to assimilate) of enjoying the beautiful weather, when the bellow of an impossibly purple Morning Glory (yes, impossibly) made me stop in my tracks. The reservoir of color in this flower was at such worrying capacity that it seemed another drop would cause all of the hue to collect and drip off the petals leaving behind only its white skeleton swaying in the breeze. This delicate swaying is another point of fascination, the petals in a coordinated dance with the wind, trying eagerly to take flight but being restrained by the careful grasp of the stem (dandelion seeds, it seems, have more determination).
Satiated, I turned to continue my purposeful walking when I was deafened by the roar of an indigo Asiatic dayflower. How could such a small flower embody such a large presence? And as my field of view expanded, I saw the awe-ful scene before me: a battlefield of color, flowers dueling one another in an attempt to catch my gaze (or perhaps this is too egocentric, for I was really the one fighting for the attention of the flowers). So I once again stopped, admiring the color of the flowers, wondering how in the world people in Boston get anywhere with such colorful combat going on in the streets.