A Posy For My Daughter.
In the hushed light of a Sunday, held close by the afterglow of a full-blue moon.
I find myself treading the sanctuary of my late-summer garden.
Life is a study in contrast — a meadow of contradictions, teeming with vitality even as it skirts the edges of decay.
My thoughts reach out like ivy vines toward my daughter, who dwells half a world away yet whose essence is stitched into the very fabric of my soul.
Years of navigating life’s seasons have taught me this: the garden reaches its most tired yet eloquent zenith in late summer.
And then, a burst of surprise — a quartet of roses in tender pink, still clinging to their purpose. They speak in whispers, their petals a lexicon of vulnerability. I listen closely, attuned to the cadence of their ephemeral wisdom.
With careful snips, I harvest them, mindful of the intrusion, the delicate balance tipped. A sprinkling of Baby’s Breath accompanies them, like the final notes of a whispered lullaby.
Arranging this modest bouquet is akin to piecing together fragments of myself.
Placed beside my great-grandmother’s clock — a relic that ticks away years — it finds meaning.
Time seems to stand still, allowing past and present to coalesce.
Sarahs from past eras and yet-unwritten futures merge into a single portrait.
And in this ephemeral Now, I know this: every Sarah that ever breathed life, and every Sarah that ever will, holds a special place for posies in her heart.
In this simple act of love, the promise of an endless summer unfurls — blooms that refuse to yield to the tug of time.
For Georgia Sarah and all the Sarahs yet to bloom.