When you love words as I do, metaphors are inevitable. Today I imagine that words are flowers, to be assembled, appreciated and inhaled for their unique fragrances.

Other languages are replete with words that have their own beauty. In French, I have always loved the word, “parapluie” or umbrella (a word that doesn’t sound nearly as pretty). Likewise, I have treasured and enjoyed such words as “enfant,” “dansant,” and “entre nous” (infant, dancing and between us).

We have our share of beautiful English words, all of which have a unique fragrance. The magic occurs when they are joined together in poetry or prose, whether it be in straight language or the alliteration of Edgar Allan Poe.

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more.” The Raven

Whether you understand “The Raven” from an analytic standpoint or you listen to the words on a literal basis, the beauty of language is that of a fragrant bouquet. Flower names such as gardenia, lilac, hyacinth and bougainvillea sound as pretty as their scents.

Yes, I admit to a romance with words that enables such metaphors and images. My work as a writer confirms that the art of assembling words is one that many appreciate in the way that a skilled florist can display the best arrangements according to size, shape, color and fragrance.

But I offer no apologies for my bouquets of words. Beauty is an advantage wherever and whenever it may be found. How better to combat dissension and tension than with beauty? Shalom.

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