I remember how sad it was that year to look out the window and see what had happened to the tulips, daffodils and peonies as a result of a late freeze.
We had enjoyed summer-like weather, and then this. All those beautiful plants wilting to the ground, as though someone had taken a blowtorch to them.
But my thoughts quickly turned to those who had likely suffered greater losses ... those who had fruit trees budding and blossoming, for example.
And then, as if to console me, this poem came to mind.
It was written at the end of a season, rather than the beginning, and it paid tribute to a good year in which no late frost had occurred, in which we had enjoyed watching the flowers, from their first shoots breaking through the soil, to their greening and blossoming, and, finally, as the season came to a close, their departure.
I was already looking forward to the next year. I knew I would miss them during the winter months, but felt assured that they, like old friends, would be back.
what beauty came
of your being with us
what pleasure grew
from your growing.
We must, by all means,
meet again next year.
(originally published in Capper's)
Today's word: pleasure