There's an old hymn I love. The first line says, "I come to the garden alone when the dew is still on the roses." I love that old song. I love gardens. It's been a long weary week (but with some bright spots along the way) and I have need of my garden. I have a deadline to meet and a magazine to proof and I can't get my mind to be still long enough to sleep. Tomorrow I think I'll plant zinnias. And maybe I'll sit in the swing and listen to the creek slip by.
Wishing you a garden moment in your busy week, too.
by Paul Verlaine
I pushed the gate that swung so silently,
And I was in the garden and aware
Of early daylight on the flowers there
And cups of dew sun-kindled. I could see
Nothing was changed from what it used to be.
There was the wild-vine arbor, the old chair
The fountain singing silvery in air
The eternal sigh of the old aspen-tree.
And still the rose is fluttering; as before
The tall, proud lily sways in the warm breeze;
I know the very larks that sink or soar;
And even the statue, frail amid her trees,
With plaster crumbling on the grassy floor,
Shines amid shadows of dead fragrancies.
translated by W. Thorley, 1866
Katya at Write, Sketch, Repeat hosts the roundup today.