I am veering off the path of my scheduled blogs and throwing something spontaneous out here.
A heavy blanket of cold oppression droops the Zinnias. Only their heads remain tall and strong.
“Pick me. The seeds within will help you welcome spring.” They whisper as I mourn.
I’m sad to see their bright faces fade away. Logic tells me it is the middle of November. Yet, the bleakness of the outside world gave me an additional enjoyment of the extended blooms. Now they too are gone.
And the dogwood droops. As do the leaves of the pepper plants which were blooming just yesterday. Women are hurt and scared. Friends are wondering do they rush their relationship into marriage just in case. Old men are angry, young men have yet to figure out what this means.
Only the Marigolds are defiant. The scrubby, almost weed of a plant, has refused to surrender. The golden orbs of petals rival the sun declaring to make its own inner warmth.
Foolhardy I know, because their days are numbered. Yet, so are mine. I’m just a weed growing at the edge of a society I no longer understand. Knowledge is easily accessible but they flock to the forest of ignorance. They eat the fruit and complain of bitterness but shove their way to get more. Surplus surely guarantees happiness.
I make peace with my seasonal melancholy as I prepare to deadhead the Zinnias. I will emulate the Marigolds and shine. Spring will come eventually. It always does.