It's only Saturday and I am writing Wednesday's post. Hmmmm.....
Let's pair the Anatomy of a Bouquet with a poem: A Word on Statistics by Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak
Out of every hundred people
those who always know better: fifty-two.
Unsure of every step: almost all the rest.
Ready to help, if it doesn't take long: forty-nine.
Always good, because they cannot be otherwise: four
—well, maybe five.
Able to admire without envy: eighteen.
Led to error by youth (which passes): sixty, plus or minus.
Those not to be messed with: forty and four.
Living in constant fear of someone or something: seventy-seven.
Capable of happiness: twenty-some-odd at most.
Harmless alone, turning savage in crowds: more than half, for sure.
Cruel when forced by circumstances: it's better not to know,
not even approximately.
Wise in hindsight: not many more than wise in foresight.
Getting nothing out of life except things:
thirty
(though I would like to be wrong).
Doubled over in pain and without a flashlight in the dark:
eighty-three, sooner or later.
Those who are just: quite a few at thirty-five.
But if it takes effort to understand: three.
Worthy of empathy: ninety-nine.
Mortal: one hundred out of one hundred
— a figure that has never varied yet.
I heard from a volunteer at Fare Share that our flowers are well received. If a neighbour arrives at 11 there are none left.
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