Paris McBride

In a moment of grief, the garden enfolded me. Close attention to the infinite bloom and fall meant life and death was all around. Violets coated the air with a perfume of muscat wine and clay earth in late July. Top notes of wet citrus and middle notes of orange blossom swathed many months. The garden bed is time and distance dissolved, it is a map of impossible meetings. June Camellia meets September Wisteria. July Magnolia meets October Lily of the Valley. The garden is patience, hope, it is ancient and it is tomorrow. It is a bridge and a place where memories flicker, weaving themselves through the fog of time.