Will Flowers Be Enough?

A quick shop at a local market early the other morning was warranted after a weekend visit to MA. Navigating several patches of ice as I crossed the small parking lot. The automatic door opened to a welcoming warm glow. The wooden floor creaked familiar. Fresh produce was being stocked. Shelves rearranged. A barista steaming milk for a local’s favorite cup.

I felt no rush. I sank into the gracious pleasure of this environment. I was happily and contentedly tired after a weekend at my daughter’s home. Time spent with the grands.

Briefly stopping at the floral section to breathe in some beauty. Taking a moment. A respite from the constant swirl of despair. Tulips and hyacinth coexisted side by side. I reached for the tulips first. A deep yellow accented with a warm rich orange. I noticed some of the stems possessed more than a singular bud. Multi-flowering tulips. An unusual bonus that provoked a faint smile. Dioxazine purple hyacinth were my next get as I was picking and choosing…

Footing was uncertain as I made my way back to the car while I thought about the inherent danger of picking and choosing. Picking and choosing journalists. Government agencies. Federal employees. Federal programs. People’s lives…

I had been surprised by the rugged conditions even while visiting MA. Immediately chilled as I let my daughter’s Brittany Spaniel out the back door early Saturday morning. The aging Brittany seemed to take too long in accomplishing her morning habits. My impatience shivered. The morning was still. Quiet. I held open the glass storm door clouded with frost while calling her name to come back into the house. Somewhere in the backyard and in a neighboring tree I heard the sweet melody of a bird. Out of sight yet the song filled the air. Struck by this sign of spring…

Was there hope under this icy landscape? I wondered as I gazed out over the frigid white blanket before my tired eyes. Could I trust in nature if nowhere else? Will daffodils make themselves known once again?

“I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils; beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze.”

– William Wordsworth