Amid the blackened stalks and pale, withered blossoms,
one lone hydrangea glows eerie blue in the winter dusk,
making an exquisite last stand against the inevitable.
I ponder it, amazed,
admiring its final burst of being
before the end, and eternal rest…
awaiting spring.
I sense a fellow-feeling here,
part grief, part gratitude,
something I can’t express and don’t understand--
but think Thoreau would--
going out in style, quietly, in solemn dignity
with all the grace and beauty one can muster.
(Rage/raging against the dying of the light is for amateurs.)
I realize: I could learn from this.
And realize: I have.
Posted: December 9, 2022
