Life like the year is a journey — from beginning to end, season to season, rain to sun. Ours is waning. Cold frosts the tops of morning fences. Plants hide near the fading heat of soil.

Splashed by recent rains, Brave Snapdragon warms its fierce breath beneath the blanket of newborn day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At its side, Tiny Viola wrinkles pansy arms, stretches and sighs to dance her turn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friendly Garden Elf laughs at the antics of plants.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lady Gerber demurely hides a blush beneath the browned tips of her chilled leaves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heightened hope lightens Languishing Lavender to leap for the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saddened Marigold sees, sheds silver tears and mopes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fate has stamped her seal on Daisy Profusion. Tears shed, head bowed, she droops to send the seeds of next-year’s spring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Butterflies southward bound and gone, Mother Abelia lifts her strawflower blooms to the light-studded eve.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Father Holly Berry blinks to focus an eye as the time approaches.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Far off, three chipped Kings of Ancient East with camels and gifts under the bright bulb of Christmas star advance toward the cardboard stable.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There a child rests, mother and father nearby, a plastic sheep at the tiny babe’s feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

While in the sky, a Brave Young Angel takes wing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

With bright voice and song, the sweet smiling cherub makes loud the pronouncement: “It is the Season of the King!”

 

Grandpa Jim