Today there are six new blossoms on the hibiscus bush. One is reaching to the earth, its face in shadow, but the sun lights its translucent petals from behind. The stamen is bright orange, neon to the hummingbirds. Three mourning doves are pecking on the ground, steadfast hunters of the fallen thistle seed. I’ve been feeling discouraged by my garden, guilty I’ve neglected it, despairing in the lack of flowers. When did it stop being splendid, I wondered, a glory each morning when I returned to it?
But today, I see six big new blossoms on the hibiscus bush, and I know I’m wrong. She still blooms, my garden. I stop to cherish her. And as I stand beside the big bush with the six red flowers, the hose in my hands, I turn to see my artichoke has bloomed overnight, responding to my ache for color. Here he is, this big purple flower, exotic and wonderful. “See?” he says. “We bloom for you.” I am abashed and grateful. I vow to tend my garden with more care.