I’m thinking things, like:
How beautiful, the pale blossoms glowing in the sweep of the headlights as I turn into the driveway.
Their heady perfume as I walk to the front door.
The felt knowledge of the path.
Taking the one step down in the darkness.
I’m thinking things like:
That bush is mere brambles for ten months in twelve.
Leafless and bare.
A couple weeks of tender, green shoots.
A couple weeks of riotous blooms,
Illuminated like stars in the galaxy of my garden.
I’m thinking things like:
Right now, I don’t think about the barren months.
Or I do, and I love these moments more.
Either way.
I’m thinking things like:
Nothing is forever.