How many pulses,
how much life force
does it take from seed to bloom?
And never does the flower ask:
Am I too big?
Are my colors too bright?
Is it ok to be true, beautiful?
It blossoms, ever-opening in its season,
perfect way, striking in sweet scent,
innocent and pure in delicate petal, detail
unfurling to wholeness again
and again and again.

In Vermont, it is often a quick change from tank tops to sweaters, the suddenly cool air fresh on cheeks and contracting shoulders, our bodies instinctively folding inward to sustain core heat, preparing us for the long journey into less daylight and deep cold.

It is the last week of summer and even the clouds are turning to autumn, as pumpkins appear at farmer’s markets and strawberries are but a passing taste of barely remembered June.  Despite its colorful warmth, there is a melancholy in the arrival of orange in the landscape, as it always foreshadows November’s grey suit and winter’s long, white blanket.

In each of us
are seeds bursting to sprout
then green
heralding buds to blossoms
whispering flourish
now.