The meadow flowers are winding down for the year, but they don’t know it yet. They keep trying to put forth bloom after tired bloom. The grasses are noticeably dying back, and it makes the flowers look more brilliant because they’re no longer hidden in the deep grass anymore. But no matter how bravely they put forth flowers, we all know it’s not spring anymore. It’s almost not summer anymore either.
|The brilliant tickseed.|
The deep maroon center of the tickseed tells a story of a brilliant sun slowly blotted out of the sky, day by day growing a bit weaker. The impossibly brilliant yellow is taken over by the deep and lusty maroon of fall, and the darkness in the center tells a morbid tale of what’s to come after that. In the meantime, though, the sun is putting up quite a fight, and so is the tickseed.
Another week or so will see these flowers all gone as if they never existed. Their secret seeds are already scattered to the winds, so they do not care if they die because they know they are immortal. Will the sun scatter hidden seeds as well so that it, too, might return? The twinkling brilliance of ice in the winter shelters that secret.
Let them all die, then--the tickseed, the grasses, the sun. Let them go back to wherever it is they came from in the first place. As if we could stop them. No, we will have to trust in the seeds again.