We thought the snows of winter had completely disappeared, but we were wrong.
As we dreamt around the fire, wrapped up tightly in our thoughts, the snowflakes were gathered up from their wet melted state by the bushels and boatloads, the hampers and crates. For weeks and a day Mother Nature turned them over in her celadon hands, commissioning the angels to wash them clean, to flute their edges like bridal gown silk. Now thusly refashioned, all over town, the white snows of winter have reappeared on the pear trees, copious, fluffy and clean, the passementerie of angels, the first sign of Spring.
And I, who always send flowers of white to honour the dead, have heard the great empty silence from far over the oceans as thousands of souls rose up through white clouds.
So I plant white allyssum in planters and windowboxes.
They spill over the stone.
Their fragrance floats on the afternoon air.
With a delicate beauty, they are flowers brave enough to weather all the cold yet to come - each blossom a prayer, each petal a remembrance.
I thought when I was old enough I would understand more, thought the candles on my birthday cake would signify a wisdom denied to the young.
But there are mysteries more enormous and questions more complex than I could ever have imagined when placing my hope in the breadth of my years.
So I plant and I pray, and hold hands with the earth.
As the world turns into white.
Image above - Spring Landscape by Linkoku (1517-1618)