And yet the most ordinary of days—
one of barely-there precipitation,
a trip to the store, where, as I park,
I see a pale yellow rose soaring
on a long, strong stem against
a soft gray sky. It pulls me out
of the car, this unseasonal,
persistent blossom, to capture
its rain-dropped glory in pixels
as petrichor rises from asphalt.
No biggie. Rain. Rose.
And yet.
“Look at that,” I say to no one
as a voice chuckles in my head,
one I can’t quite place but feels
like affirmation from the floral
committee. Possibly an invitation,
which I accept—hope lifting
like the clouds—to lean in
for an improbable rosy sniff
on this singular afternoon.
Your lovely rose made me look out my living room window, where I spied two of my grandmother’s bright white Shasta daisies in full bloom, despite recent overnight lows of 26 degrees. And then I read the New York Times headline “Democrats Rout G.O.P.” and our collective blossoms really made me smile. Though I, too, voted, I feel a bit like Lucy shouting “HOPE!” after Linus tells her he wouldn’t marry her unless she were the last person on earth.
HOPE, indeed! Thanks, Terry… and how lovely that your grandmother’s daisies are still blooming!