Flowers
A man is a much more delicate, rare thing than we imagine. So is a woman. Like a shy plant that dares not flower til the season is right. That's how it is with us, with our man or our womanhood side. It only flowers rarely in this mechanical season. Only rarely does it show, and spite the things that are destructive to it, the harsh mental things. But when it does petal out and open, a dark, deep touch is made, a big, deep touch. The woman comes out of her clothes, out of hiding, and the man shows his face and his hands. Suddenly there are his hands looking like the hands of a man, will-free, instinctive, free of forced habit, a bit uncoordinated. And the woman is out of her skin of clothes, fit to be seen in her deep soul, dark like her protective hair. She no more flits around with artificial eagerness and shallow joy, like a dumb blond butterfly, still wrapped in a cocoon of triteness. Her consciousness shifts downward to balance away from the mental edge, into flowered physical awareness. Away from words and wordyness toward a silent figuring, a silent knowledge. The new bodily awareness of the world, untouched, prime and untouched by anything mental. It's the central underground spring of creative mystical awareness.
In coming into touch with the man, they touch this awareness, renew themselves, and at the same time fulfill themselves with a full physical fulfillment.
