I don't think that I've done a very good job of tending to my gardens this year. There are the figurative gardens ... endeavors, ideas and the like ... which were planted in good faith but not necessarily given the time and attention they needed to take root and flourish. And then, of course, the literal gardens ... wave petunias in terra cotta pots that seemed to require little attention but, as with all else in life, would've thrived had they been more than afterthought by summer's peak.
November arrived today and there was this wee flower at the end of a withered tendril. With it comes the reminder that no garden is beyond hope. There will be opportunities to plant again. To know better, thus do better. But even without better, there shall be some blooms. For this I am so grateful.
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