I’ll need to let the dahlias and the zinnias make up their own story tonight. I really am tired. I’ll be leaving the dishes and the coffee fixings until tomorrow morning, too.
Listen to the morning sun and foggy mists they have to tell. All the growing days they’ve spent, and nights standing in the warm sing-songing darkness. Layers and layers accumulating exactly as written in the capsule of seed, and yet each one unfurling a new and unprecedented creature when the time comes.
Listen to the dahlias and the zinnias. They tell it better than me.