late-bloomer

In the warming days of spring,

I planted two spidery tubers,

dahlias-to-be.

They soon sent up shoots,

greening, growing,

straight stems,

branching arms,

arrowed, light-veined leaves.

I watched for blooms to form,

for I had forgotten what color

they would be,

and I love the surprise of dahlias.

One bloomed in midsummer,

petals the color of burgundy wine.

The other grew taller,

stretched her leaves,

but gave no sign of blooms.

I made excuses for her.

(I am an expert at excuses,

being a late bloomer myself.)

Maybe it’s the heat, I said.

It’s been awfully hot this summer.

Maybe it’s because she came from

the supermarket, not the nursery.

Maybe I gave her too much water.

Or not enough.

I never know.

The fire-red salvia came and went,

the peppery basil is going to seed,

even the fragrant mint has bloomed.

I began to think this dahlia

would be content to wear green

all her life.

(Late bloomer that I am,

I’ve not outgrown impatience.)

Then, this week,

two blooms uncurled,

unfurled,

creamy peach,

warm blushing joy.

I had forgotten what her name was,

if the package even said.

Some dahlias are named Beauty

or Charlotte

or White Moonlight.

I call this one

Patience,

for that is the wisdom she carries:

Plant beauty, kindness, grace,

she says,

then be at peace,

patient.

-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the Week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

The elms are late-bloomers.

Maples, redbuds, tulip poplars,

even grandfather hackberry

show off their spring green leaves.

But the elms,

one in each corner of my back yard,

are still asleep.

My young neighbor says,

“I think they are dead.”

I squint and study the elms,

look them up and down

as if he might be right,

but I know he’s not.

Silhouetted against the morning sky,

their upreaching branches bear bumps of

leaves-to-be

and the faint sheen of

newborn green.

My elms bide their time.

No hurry.

No worry.

I imagine that’s their mantra,

their peaceful way of entering spring,

stretching and yawning,

catching a few more drowsy minutes.

These elms have seen seasons come and go

for at least as long as I have,

and they know the deep joy of

lingering

a moment

longer.

They know the deep peace of

unhurried progress,

the contentment of

being a

late bloomer.

– kh –

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Carry the Calm

Karyn Henley

Ah, the Dahlia

No Hurry, No Worry