the flowers know

written in South Africa, as the first Italian towns went into lockdown 

‘around four o’clock in the afternoon, these flowers open up’
she says it with her hands full of groceries
I listen with my arms full of daughter

there is not much time for that fact
but while we walk down on the stairs, towards the house with view on the ocean,
my head hooks itself on those flowers

while the new virus is spreading fast & I try to understand what this means – how it might make people more afraid, more extreme right winged, close – the – borders – we – don’t – trust – the – government – and – each – other – anymore,

while I too feel how my imagination slips every now and then towards: I – contagious – my – father - & - then – it – will – be – deadly,

while I put articles next to each other, find it unjust that people who heal – as usual, in the broadest term – get so little space,

while I too read the horror of hospitals that can not, can not, can not, can not, please go home, the dying patients –

while I carry that bundle of more or less thirteen, fifteen, kilo’s, that heap of little girl, bundle of being, bundle of hope, towards the guestroom,

the rhythm of the flowers – how do they know that it is more or less four o’clock in the afternoon – still pulls me

if the tanks come
            - suppose they come -

if the end comes
            - suppose it comes –

the rhythm of the flowers will stay alive

while I carry that little heap of warm hope, half asleep, downstairs,
something in me connects with their way of living

it is that knowing 

that knowing, underneath and through everything and all,
that is is almost four o’clock in the afternoon