flowers, grief and e.e. cummings


It’s a grey, chilly, winter day in Lowndesboro.  I’m not sure why, except that I love them both, but my friends, Liz and Bob, have been on my mind. It is around this time that Liz lost her beloved nephew quite a number of years ago now.  For Bob, the loss came suddenly, much more recently: a man who could say “sugah” better than anyone I ever met,  with his wonderful art, his dogs, his foibles, his infinity of tchotchkes, was Bob’s love and companion.  None of us ever know, really, because most of us learn to carry it well, how disorienting, how grey and colorless grief can be for years on end.

I pulled on my funny-silly Wellies, the ones I bought for 19 dollars at Tractor Supply and still look good and work good too. Then, I headed out to capture tiny bits of color that have found their way to Lowndesboro already.  The forsythia bloomed early, fast and fierce this year, so fast I almost missed the bloom.  The peach and white flowering quince are also blooming; the camellia bush is about to explode in its riot of pink.  And the daffodils. My Lord how I treasure those sweet, ordinary daffodils, with their yellow insistence that bleakness does not have the last word,  nor death. I took these pictures for my friends and for anyone who grieves and finds the world too awash in gray and grim these days.

we need to remember, we need to remind each other: that queer old balloonMan whistles. even now.





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