I love my garden. Technically, garden[s] plural, I suppose, as there’s one in the front yard and one in the back. I’ve owned this house for over 25 years.
But I have to say, I don’t much care for the Here Comes Spring Again part of the process. So much budding greenery. What if I don’t want to feel cheery, come April? How dare fresh leaves bear the sun so well?
I’m far fonder of Dear God It’s Winter Already. Because in all honesty, sprouting and growing and blooming and fading is an impolite reminder that we too shall die.
And I don’t want to. I find life, sheer consciousness, to be the most astonishing thing imaginable. I get to breathe? I have eyes? Skin? I can’t quite believe it’ll be over some day. I call it the Death Problem.
So I grumble at new growth. How dare my flowers regenerate when I cannot?
I forgive only in their moment of beauty. Dangerous approach with people, works OK for flowers. Whether at dawn, midday, afternoon, or grey skied twilight. Everything has its time. Except white roses, of course, who pretty much rock it day in, day out. Emphasis on in, for as long as we can.
Images by LPC. For more posts on this theme please go here.