Dying

I am slowly accepting the fact (as I have many autumns before) that I cannot preserve summer's beauty no matter how well I plan or protect.  I did go outside yesterday and try to cut most of the new rose buds before we get our first frost...which currently is a long ways off according to the weather report.  When I pick the buds this time of year after they have held through the cold nights they usually last only a few days and burst forth into fat open blooms when placed in my warm house and in normal water.  By the end of the week they are dropping rose petals everywhere as if throwing confetti to remind me the party is over, but to compensate for their messiness, they smell really, really sweet in the autumn!  Their short lived beauty is a reward.

Even though I cannot choose colors or sizes of blossoms at this time of year for the perfect asymmetrical bouquet, they do give me pleasure in their simple country style as I clump them together.  It is a more comfortable style...like winter slippers.

Later in the same afternoon I peruse my summer annuals outside, and even though they are retreating from the weather, I think they still have a certain beauty about them.  These zinnias look a little like impressionistic paintings done by the artist who saw the perfect flowers earlier in the month and then attended a carnival that evening.   Upon waking he grabbed his bright paints and did these.

As I venture further into the more open fields where the weather is harsher I find that even the end of the wild flower has its perfect moment before snow brings her down.  (I do not know what these are/or were.)

Each season certainly has its own reward.