Soon the sweet scent of the rose will be just a memory drifting out on the West Wind. Pine and wood smoke will replace her gentle elegance as snow covers the grass and the skies turn gray. A true gardener laments the coming of Autumn - the first song of Winter - just a little. The fading of the last mum is like the loss of a rare and beautiful love. Even though the flowers will return in streams of color and joy from spring to summer they are deeply missed at the evening of the year, through its midnight and into the dawn of the next.
When I was a child my father, the finest gardener I have ever known, told me that Heaven's seasons are the opposite of ours. When the pale gown of Winter covers the Earth the souls of all the flowers bloom above to delight the saints. My father and I did not share a faith, but we shared an understanding of the inestimable spiritual significance of the flower.
No comments:
Post a Comment