arching branches dripping with perfect minuscule white flowers - lace edged leaves holding morning dew one glistening drop at a time - tender new rose buds blushing pink and crimson and intertwined with dark purple clematis - peonies bursting in a brief riot of magenta glory - breath catching spring beauty so captivating it must have been painted there by monet. then the burst and dazzle and enveloping perfume of summer - euphoria lasting only an instant.

will you think i'm beautiful in autumn - rich with color and life but worn and spent - summer lushness giving way to the inevitable return to the earth?

will you still love me in winter when i am nothing more than a skeleton of myself - offering only the prayer for what may or may not return the same - all parts not equal to the way you once loved them? will you settle a blanket around my roots and gently trim away all that is finished to find what life is hidden inside? will you wait for me - will you stand patiently - quietly - believing i will return - better for this brief respite of stillness and emptiness?

the garden teaches respect for the stillness when sustenance and strength are gathered - trust in the circle that seems to begin in death and rise again - stronger and more resilient - understanding as the sun reaches the pinnacle and without pause begins its descent. when it has dropped beyond experience, beyond warmth and light, it has already begun to rise. there is no end - no beginning - no win or loss - no top or bottom. there is only the circle containing all parts at once - relentless continuation.

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life is a winding trail of rocks and hills and muddy spots almost impossible to navigate - a path of enchanting sunsets over the mountains on pueblo land and warm story time next to a freshly bathed sweet smelling baby who wants to read good night moon one more time. it is making love on the beach in hawaii - too young to be uncomfortable and too reckless to fear getting caught. it is contentment in the morning sun with a hummingbird dancing in the spray of the water hose on your birthday and agonizing fear when your child's fever won't break. it is passing on the youth and beauty and spotlight to your children as you step back fully willing and insistent they take the last piece of pie or sleep in the coziest bed or shine like a star in the black sky.

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the garden is a part of my life i come home to over and over again - along with faith and smiling pets and the sound of sports blaring from the television because it means jim is home and i am not alone. i come home to my books - the smell of dust on worn spines with title after title calling my name in the little town library where i greet the librarians like trusted keepers of my treasures. i come home to baking chocolate chip cookies on my worn out baking sheet that never gets completely clean and seeing my sweet elizabeth and alexander settle in on shaky black counter stools for a glass of milk and one too many warm soft cookies. i come home to the lovely chapel where weekday mass is quiet and reverent and i close my eyes from start to finish and only open them at the end to receive golden sunlight pouring through stained glass. i come home to my peonies and hydrangeas, tulips, butterfly bushes and mountains of lady's mantle and black eyed susans, white montauk daisies and the intoxicating fragrance of pink phlox and butterflies landing on my shoulders. i come home to birds singing outside my windows and neighbors stopping to chat about what kind of mulch i will buy this year or how quickly the kids are growing up or laughing at me for polishing too long on my little red mini cooper.