The Wheel Turns

As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more. "(Psalm 103: 15, 16)

Thursday, the grass stood up (very tall) and demanded to be cut. It should have been done a few days earlier at the very least. But weather and other exigencies combined to thwart us.

Friday, the lawn and deck furniture (how pretentious that sounds) also decided that it was time to come out of winter storage. "Out of this damp shed," said the table and chairs. "Let's have some sun. We'll put up with the rain and cold spells as we must, but our time has come."

The wheel of time continues to turn. My lovely daffodils are still that — lovely — but the edge of the shade is upon them. The tulips have come into their glory and the daffodils have begun to diminish.

The wheel always turns. It can't be stopped, and it never runs in reverse. Let us be tinged with some sadness for the fading daffodils, but let us not spend too much time mourning, for it is time to rejoice over the glory of the tulips and of all of the garden glories waiting to be born anew.

Rejoice while we have breath, for it may be that is all that we shall ever have.