Flowers On Sunday Last

The expanding dark brings its own pleasures –  the reassurance of glowing windows, the cozy warmth of extra blankets, the snug nest of home – all compensations for the ever receding daylight.  Really, you can’t live here unless you can find some delight in the dark and the cold.  Overhead, more stars than any summer sky will reveal.  The certain knowledge that, even during the deepest freezes, you will see someone at the grocery store buying charcoal in shorts and flip-flops.  And, it must be said, brandy in your coffee.

I don’t want to leave my Sunday flowers behind, and I don’t want to think about how different this winter may be.  The leagues we’ve travelled these seven months – and we still have a long way to go – trapped on this Ship of Fools.  I don’t want to let this catastrophe shake my faith in winter.  Winter drawing us into our grateful hearts, sinking us into the patient sleep that earth and every creature knows must be taken so we can do the work that only rest can accomplish.

The last rose of the season isn’t like the first one, tickled pink out of her bud by warmth and sun and rain.  The last rose takes the dare of failing light and shivering nights.  She blooms willfully, a determined glint in her eye.  The last rose is gambler who knows she will have to fold – but plays her hand anyway, because either you are in the game or you’re not.

Winter is coming, but not today. Today, there’s still some time to feel the sun, and it’s warm here by the window, in the light.

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