Flowers in a garden. Even the same varieties at different stages have uniqueness. Some mature, some buds, some with tightly wound florettes. All perky, facing the sun, a mirror of it's color, with traces of fiery red over an orange ball. Circles within the circles. A light dusting of fallen petals lay beneath, caught by the undercarriage of leaves. And then there's the interloper flower, the bloom nearly gone, petals pointing up, down, contrasting color, an early sunrise, a sunset. Scruffy array standing with the order of the coifed, providing a break from the tension. This flower, time of bloom and blossom nearly spent, offers a mindful visual of the importance of being and beauty at all times in life. Flowers needn't speak to provide their stories, but oh if they only could. What stories would they tell of accepting and appreciating, of living life together, of understanding difference is transitory, and part of life. Alive is alive.
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