Almost . . . 

A strange 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 are.
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.