Worthy Witness

This morning at 5:45, a cool breeze wafted through the bedroom window and lightly touched the sheet covering my aged, naked body.  I was aroused by its insistence to reach across the length of the room and awaken me with its caress.  I knew it was time to cut back the front lilies.

This had been a splendid summer for the flowers.  They bloomed for most of the month of July, four weeks of continuous beauty with no work other than to snap the spent blossoms each morning so those in waiting would not be inferior.  Clip, snap, pull, water;  summer vocabulary of the resident gardener.

Armed with shovel, hoe, clippers and wheel barrel, the rusted, three-wheeled hefty bag in metal had been filled and disposed of its contents twice before breakfast.  In less than two hours, my Monet-type summer garden looks sparse and incomplete.  Where it was once thick and colorful, the land is barren with clumps of the yellowing stems in earth that has been raked naked.

Nearby rocks are moved and set into the most obvious spaces.  Invasive species with interesting color are transplanted and cut back, urging them to thicken and hide the marred landscape.  I hesitate on moving my elegant brass pin wheel to the front, but decorum wins over fear of loss, and there is a new element in the wind.