My garden is glorious as it dies, each branch a kiss of colour in the chill.
Our youngest tree, a slim and sturdy serviceberry, is vying for the most spectacular show.
Underfoot, damp decay, old dog shit-for all the splendour, there is melancholy in these autumn leaves, a sigh of time’s fleet.
Today I read the story of a mom who lost a child, a daughter who taught her mom the most valuable lesson. Even the youngest, the most vulnerable, the ones who leave us too early, shower us with sweet ruby.
I wept, as you will, and wondered if I gave enough hugs now as the year fades out.
We lost our baby in her third year. If she only knew how much she taught me
Go plant a tree for a lost child.
As it grows, wrap your arms around its trunk. Marvel as it shoots up to the light. Never stop.
Trees are my therapists, if you haven’t guessed.
