As I returned to the entrance of my apartment building, I noticed the sudden absence of color on the sprawling lawn in front of me. For several weeks, I had been greeted with the welcome of brilliant red and yellow tulips bobbing their heads in the wind. As the suns rays cascaded on to their huddled petals, they stretched their arms heavenward and tiny, black gems glistened in the sparkling light. With each sunny day's end, they hid their heads behind enfolding arms to shield their delicate softness against the darkening sky.
Morning's promise prompted a new awakening and petals opened slowly to greet the warmth of another day's sunshine.
And now the bright , bobbing heads had been beheaded by the passage of time and the chilly, wind-swept rains, and all that remains are headless legs, stalks so starkly left behind.
A flash of brilliant color, a bevy of freely given beauty, a fleeting festival of nature's bounty, all gone.
In the overcast morning, I am saddened by the loss. My home is bereft of color. I balk at spring's brevity. I feel like it's fall and summer has as yet, not arrived. Ecclesiastes runs through my mind, a book read in the synagogue not now, but in autumn, when the winter's cold comes so close." A season is set for everything , a time for every experience under heaven...a time for planting", a time for reveling in color and warmth, and a time to witness the uprooting of fragile life.
I have a choice; to mourn the loss of spring's suddenness, or to gratefully rejoice in the gift of glory that was given on loan. I reach for gratitude, the miracle of momentary magic, and the tender traces of spring's tulips remain etched in my mind's gift of recall.
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