I was hurrying by, not really paying attention but they winked at me
So I brought them home.
They are a beautiful shade that appears in the dying pinks of sunset.
Or rather early dawn when the sky is still white with undecided direction
But sunrise already nudges forward under the horizon.
Perhaps it is the pink of ancient roses grown in country gardens
That grandma used to love.
A pink that is innocent, fragile and already spent,
Expiring before it becomes glorious, bleached of its hue
As the ranunculus opens up to the world.
It doesn’t have the exuberant joy of crimson pinks that demand attention
Or the passion of red summer poppies.
Paler than baby pink,
It is sweeter than the blush of first kiss.
It has the quiet grace of unrequested absolution,
The harmonies of rain and lullabies,
The tenderness of home,
It holds the contented sigh that escapes at the end of a long journey,
The faint scent of brown sugar and freshly laundered linen.
It is the pink of little girls’ dreams,
Of angel wings and mermaids seashells,
And of faded apple blossoms smiling at a double rainbow.
shells from http://www.seashells.com