All summer I am surrounded by blissful, sweet, exuberant color. A garden burst full with surprises, sun-draped petals, shadow-etched leaves. I take the chromatic approach to expression and gather zinnias, little saffron sunpops flickering in a pink glass vase. Or these whispering anemones on noodly stems.
Today the garden is gray-brown, somber. The crushed anemones must trust the light to come again. The blood-red penstemon blooms fall senseless to the ground, cut by the stinging frost. They are still so frilled (so young), they aren’t ready. I kneel and cover them with leaves, mutter thanks.
I grow a veil of color on a tiny planet that lately seems to lean toward darkness. The veil does not shelter me from recognizing imbalances and disproportions and vicious circles and inequalities and all manner of warps and wrecks. I am a writer. I should have words to approach these things.
“The world is not worthy of words…”
Mexican poet, Javier Sicilia, on the murder of his son
For now, until I find words, I bow my head in a garden that trusts that there will again be light.