Velvet Against the Skin

There is a specific resistance when you press your thumb against the petal of a flower that has just begun to unfurl. It is not quite silk, and it is not quite paper; it is a cool, living velvet that holds the dampness of the morning deep within its fibers. I remember the smell of a garden after a heavy rain—that thick, green scent of crushed stems and wet earth that clings to your clothes for hours. It is a heavy, grounding perfume that reminds you that you are made of the same soil and water as the things that grow. We spend so much of our lives rushing, our skin dry and calloused from the friction of the day, forgetting the softness that exists in the quiet corners of a garden. When was the last time you let your fingers trace the intricate, rhythmic veins of a leaf, feeling the pulse of something that does not need to speak to be understood? Does your own skin remember the feeling of being held by the sun?

Luca Renoldi has captured this tactile memory in his beautiful image titled Pink Gerbera. The way the light clings to the petals makes me want to reach out and feel that velvet texture for myself. Does this image stir a memory of a garden you once knew?