I know when the dogwood blossoms wane, other flowers will follow--purple iris, pink country roses, and blue hydrangeas. But still, I hold on. I’ve been painting, taking pictures. Loving every petal.
Especially dazzling this year, the trees escaped a late frost which often burns the flowers and leaves them rusty and wilted.
Today, they are resplendent with all that’s ab ovo (from the beginning). Like an egg, which holds the hope of starting anew, the dogwoods seem to whisper into the very wind the possibility of restoration and rebirth.
This is my Father’s world, the birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white, declare their maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world: he shines in all that’s fair;
In the rustling grass I hear him pass; he speaks to me everywhere.
Maltbie D. Babcock
When I “hear him pass,” he says, “I am the resurrection and the life.” (John 11:25) And all in my life that’s broken, sickly, and anemic from this long, long winter rises to the cadence of his lilting message.
