Yesterday, a steamy "summer" day, albeit scented with the heavy, seductive odor of honeysuckle. Today, the miasma of spring is again upon us, a cooling rain drawing its veil across these hills.
There are buds forming on the feral pink Seven Sisters roses sprawling through the untidy regrowth. They will soon bloom, a growing reminder of hands long gone to dust. Sweet, delicate, and enduring.
Someone set the door stones, someone shaped up the foundations. Someone planted the roses and flower starts stubbornly persisting so many decades later.
We build our towers. Aesthetic joys not withstanding. Each year, we live a little brighter, a little wider, looking for a worthy purpose and its gratification.
Each year, the towers crumble. Foundations sink into soil, rich moss growing jade and emerald over the evidence. Ferns rise, reveling in the infinitesimal, inevitable return of forest primeval. Honeysuckle vines tangle, binding blackberry canes, redbud trees, and juniper berries into artful arrangements.
And when the time is right, Seven Sisters rise up, ghostly in the shady edges where memory clashes with nature, wear their naked thorns with pride, and sprawl, pale faces rosy beneath an unconcerned moon.
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Photo: Seven Sisters pink rose, growing wild on an old house site. ©️ May 28, 2021, by @_RLMT/R.L.M. Tipton
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