The Flower in its Season

On trusting the Master Gardener in the winter seasons of life

I awake to the whoosh of the wind. It is morning, although I know that by measure of man’s timepiece and not of the sunrise; there isn’t enough light to coax even a slim shadow anywhere. I hear the gusts rush by, sweeping the canopy of evergreens and buffeting the house. I can’t decide if I am comforted by the coziness of my warm bed, or if I am weary of the fury of the outside world.