Before the groves and gardens sleep

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THE MORNING GLORY AND THE ROSE

What if, in spite of an untimely freeze, the morning glory opened early to the sun as she does customarily, never mind the chill at midnight, heedless of the wintry sting at five or six o’clock a.m.? Dawn catches her unfurling eagerly to drink the first fresh pink and orange beams, the sweetest in their purity. Some will think her reckless; she knows better, as do we.

Elsewhere in the garden there are blossoms reticent to show themselves for dread of frostbite, wrapped in all their fragile petal layers, holding tightly to them for protection. Nature, I suppose, possesses wisdom and experience beyond my own; she knows what she’s about.

The rose, perhaps, must cautiously keep watch, his vulnerable core intolerant of icy blasts late in the season. He would ask the April air to mitigate itself in ways felicitous to roses, thus assuredly to demonstrate his gorgeous geometrical array in safety come mid-May. All well and good, I say, for roses.

I would rather imitate the morning glory, braving every sort of wind to hear the stories each arrives relating from the corners of the earth by way of raucous shouting or of sibilance; besides, her beauty is the kind that shows to best advantage when in motion, nodding, tossing, spinning with her sisters in a feral dance that might caress the grass or reach aspiring to the sky.

At last, if I were she, happily would I draw back as shadows lengthen, sagging in the heaviness of afternoon. She makes a virtue of necessity, giving place to let the rose command attention in the quiet of a summer evening, when the wind’s remaining energy ascends in gentle currents to the canopy; it loves to tease the drowsy cottonwood and maple leaves before the groves and gardens sleep.

Then the morning glory -- blissfully exhausted and perhaps, if flowers are at all contemplative, a little pensive -- lets her bright blue dress go limp and drab and, in her self-imposed seclusion inconspicuous, collapses gratefully and rests, the better to embrace tomorrow for all the difference it makes.

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The morning stars before they fade

Venus rising over the Pacific Ocean, by Japanese photographer Sho Endo

ON THIS SIDE

Over on the other side, there is a quiet cottage on a

grassy slope, where trees protect and decorate and

cast their pleasing shadows on the water; and where

children, hyacinths, and roses, cucumbers, and peppers

grow, and snowy linens hung to dry are blowing in the

breeze. Inside, bread rises in the oven, herbs depend from

oaken beams, and last night’s chicken in its steaming broth

becomes this evening’s stew, tomorrow’s casserole. An old

man and a young man and a boy are sharing rituals and

mending fences, while a woman, unaccountably serene,

sips coffee, shuts her eyes, and says a prayer of thanks for all

that grace provides.

But on this side are broken shutters, dusty shelves,

unanswered letters, leaves in piles, and moldy flower beds;

and seams half-sewn on half-done dresses; half-forgotten

words in half-read books; and pressing obligations half-

remembered, half despaired of. Morning struggles through

the cloudy panes of windows — gray and half-neglected or,

perhaps, defied. A pallid beam succeeds at last and penetrates

the barrier. It comes to rest upon the drooping pothos, which

persists in barely living, never mind the diffidence its garden is.

The ray of sullen light turns motes of dust to fireflies. At first

they float at random; then they glide; then, whimsical, they

dance as if to challenge gravity or chance; as if they will

their time aloft, to have an audience, to shine like stars.

They catch the sun and flicker. They have won a moment’s

glory. Soon it ends, but they have shone.

On the other side are peace and order; on this side is eagerness

to cross the wide, intimidating border, to be purposeful and more,

to yet achieve, to meet and to exceed an expectation, even one—

to finish what’s begun; half-perfection wishing to be whole, to be

forgiven for attaining less than paradise. But for all that, this side is

painted with the brush that, dipped in heaven’s glory, must in time

adorn the swale with yellow clover and, today, in dust makes

manifest the morning stars before they fade.

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