Almost . . .
Sunday -- the date is 02/20/2000. All twos and zeroes. That, alone,
makes it strange, but the strangeness of the day came from other sources.
I wandered around, among flowers and memories -- and things that almost were and
Almost Spring, almost memories, almost a Love, almost a Life, almost . . .
Almost Spring, lonely flowers, empty benches, neglected beauty, things that once were and almost are -- almost . . .
|The gentle quince flowers are our first sign of Almost Spring. Yet, there was a sadness about their beauty as the signs of neglect were obvious.|
|A single flower, wondering in its solitude what became of the shared joy that once saw to its care.|
|The jonquils join the quince in announcing the change of seasons. They are sometimes too early in their pronouncement, as the frigid winter often awaits to belie their pleasure.|
|Usually they grow in clusters, sharing their bright gaiety with each other and the world, but this lonely flower seemed somehow disconnected . . .|
|. . . as though it had chosen not to join in the lonely watch over an empty bench where so many memories had been made and shared.|
|The lofty poplar prepares for Almost Spring as its many flowers await the return of the warmth of Spring and Love.|
|Yet, it joins the sadness of the jonquils as they quietly preside over a garden which does not join them in the expectation of Almost Spring.|
|The bright camellias remember that they were once planted in a sharing of joy, but now wonder what became of those times, . . .|
|, , , as the wind chimes perform their symphony for an audience of one -- and wonder, too.|
|Empty benches and an empty swing share the sadness of the Almost Spring and a strange Sunday.|
The sadness of a happy time -- Almost Spring.