This afternoon, the view across my back yard is the essence of a shimmering, golden autumn afternoon. Dappled sun makes a patchwork of still bright green grass and long shadows. The light filters through colored leaves clinging to trees and silhouettes bare branches whose leaves now gather deeply in piles of brown.
The last of the zinnias valiantly lift their heads up to the surprisingly warm sun and purple echinacea, still stalwart, carries on for who knows how much longer.
Though it seems a bit later to me this year; these remnants of summer flowers mark the changing of the seasons. They appear reluctant to go. I guess that is what autumn is all about; a time of late warmth and glow, while heading reluctantly toward winter. I have felt gifted by these late bloomers, but I am feeling surprised and startled by new garden developments.
I pruned the giant, old rose bush a month or so ago. A lot of dead wood and overgrown canes had to go. And now, as if to say "thank you," a new crop of fat, creamy blossoms have emerged, here at the beginning of November. They look so beautiful, and somehow peaceful, bathed in the easy light of autumn.
Then this morning, coffee cup in hand, I was checking out the backyard scene, when, to my surprise, I discovered a glorious purple and white iris, blooming away. It is accompanied by a host of buds, promising further developments. But how can this be? Why is it here just now out of season and so improbable.
I have been filled with wonder about these developments all day. And then it came to me: the roses and the irises came to me just now for beauty. They came for beauty and to make me happy, yes, and grateful.
I cut six fat, pinkish-yellow rose buds and placed them in a blue and white porcelain pitcher that belonged to my great-grandmother. They sit on the dining table bathed in the same light which blesses them outside. I look at them and beyond to my yard and I am happy and grateful.
That is all the explanation my soul requires from these out-of-season gifts.
