Poppies

Flowers. It was William Blake who wrote:

"To see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour. "

I let my back garden run a bit wild this year. The much heralded revamp is on hold. It was heaven for the insects (bees in particular) to have a range of wild flowers to enjoy, even if it all looked a bit scruffy and haphazard. 

I love wild flowers and the illustration below is a glass panel I had made for me a few years ago to hang in the conservatory, because unlike paintings or posters the colours don't get bleached by the sunshine. Stephanie Bowen is a local Lancashire glass artist with a studio, Morpheus Glass, in Wigan. 

Meadow Flowers - glass panel art by Stephanie Bowen, 2019 

Given that we are close to Armistice Day, I thought I'd focus this flower blog on poppies in particular, since the red poppy (papaver rhoeas ), or red-flowered corn poppy to give its full title, has become the symbol of remembrance for those fallen in battle, in no small part  because of the way it colonised the disturbed soil of the First World War battlefields in the wake of all that bloodshed - although there are deeper connotations as described further on.

But poppies come in a variety of species and colours (yellow, orange, purple, blue, white, pink). As with many cultural practices, the first recorded instance of poppies being cultivated and used for culinary, medicinal, recreational and religious purposes dates back to the Sumerians (in what is now southern Iraq) some time in the fifth millennium BC. They were the first to grow opium poppies (papaver somniferum ), a practice that continues to this day across the region of the Middle East and Asia, providing the world with a precariously regulated source of opium and analgesic opiates (including codeine, heroin and morphine).

From Sumeria, poppy cultivation and poppy folklore spread west around the Mediterranean and east along the silk road to China. Juglets containing opium have been found in Ancient Egyptian tombs and poppies feature in their jewellery and paintings of the second millennium BC. In Crete, Minoan culture of the same period celebrated the Poppy Goddess and later, both Greek and Roman cultures regarded the poppy as a symbol of sleep and dreams (narcolepsy - the Morpheus connection) and of death (repose in everlasting sleep). Poppies featured in funeral rites and as tokens of remembrance even three thousand years ago. There is also some evidence that other pagan religions came to regard the poppy as a symbol of resurrection.

Of course to most of us poppies are appreciated for their vibrant colour, whether growing as wild flowers in the countryside or as ornamental plants in our gardens, and the bees love them. There will be poppies as well as geraniums in my garden after the revamp.

They also retain their culinary and cosmetic uses. Poppy seeds (the non-opioid varieties) are rich in oil, calcium and protein. The oil can be used in salads and in cooking, and many bread products are baked with poppy seeds mixed in the dough or sprinkled on top. Poppy extracts feature in beauty products and are used in the manufacture of some paints and varnishes.

The poppy is the national flower of both Albania, North Macedonia and Poland and is the state flower of California. Poppy has also regained currency in the 21st century as a girl's name and several rock bands have featured it, including (with incisive Scouse humour) Liverpool's Dead Poppies.      

Girl in a Field with Red Poppies - by Frank Buchser, 1878

To conclude, here's a poem I've just written in that eternity of an hour the clocks have given back to us tonight. Its title is from a quote by Dr. Joel Warsh, an American paediatrician. In full, the quotation reads:

"Let’s raise children who can name plants and animals, not celebrities and brands. In a world full of screens and pop culture, let’s encourage our kids to connect with nature and appreciate the beauty around them. Teaching them about the natural world helps foster curiosity, responsibility, and a deeper understanding of our planet. "

Let's Raise Children Who Can Name Plants And Animals

Belcher's Factory tea room

Monday mid-morning break

women in pink nylon overalls

sit drinking tea 

at tables with plastic flowers

scrolling on their phones 

or chatting

about weekend dates or TV

when one exclaims 'there's a bird'.

A rare sight indeed.

They crowd to the dusty window

and gaze at the tiny thing

bobbing and dipping

in the gutter of the factory opposite.

'That's a pied wagtail' says the youngest

who's never seen one before

but has the book at home.

'It's probably searching for water

or insects.'

They watch its jerky little movements

with fascination until with a last flick

of its black and white tail it sails off

leaving them to stare wistfully after

without knowing why.

Come on girls! Mugs away!

That sinking feeling,

back to the production of wealth.

And so to bed, as Zebedee said...or was it Samuel Pepys? (Don't answer, I know it was the latter.)

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Wayside Blossoms

He’d said he would be back in the spring with the curlew. But it was June and there was still no sign of him. 

Before Jim left, he’d given Sara a gift, a book called Wayside and Woodland Blossoms. It contained all the varieties of British wildflowers you could possibly imagine, complete with illustrated colour plates and a detailed description of each flower and the family it belonged to.

‘I expect you to have learnt the names of all the flowers in this book by the time I get back,’ he joked. 

‘I’m not interested in wildflowers,’ she said. ‘I just wish you weren’t going.’ 

‘We’ve been over this a million times,’ he said. ‘I can’t stay here twiddling my thumbs. I need to earn a living and there’s nothing for me here. We’re in the middle of a depression, remember. At least you have a job. And they’re always going to need teachers.' 

‘But why do you have to go so far away?’ she said. ‘And what makes you think it will be better anywhere else?’
‘Well, I have to try,’ he said. ‘There are always plenty of jobs down South, fruit-picking. It’s not as if I’m leaving the country.’

With that he packed his bags and was gone. A letter arrived soon afterwards. He’d found a job for the harvest season in Kent. He’d be home for Christmas. But Christmas came and went. Next thing she knew he’d gone and signed up to work on a ship. It was an opportunity he couldn’t refuse, he said. He was sailing the next day. He’d be home in the spring.

The book lay on the bedside table all winter. What was the point in looking at pictures of wildflowers during the winter? It had been raining non-stop and the ground was soddened, so she couldn’t even get out for a walk. But when spring came and the weather bucked up, she was determined to make the most of it. She’d try to identify as many wildflowers as she could on her walks.

Soon the first primroses were pushing up their pale, yellow petals along shady banks, followed by delicate white wood anemones. There were carpets of celandines and bluebells amidst wild garlic, violets, and wild strawberry flowers. The boggy areas were awash with marsh marigolds.

His letters were becoming less and less frequent. Maybe he was too busy, too caught up in his everyday life to find time to write. Or maybe the letters just weren't getting through. When a letter finally did arrive, it contained some lines from a poem called the Seafarer.

     ‘Sometimes I heard the song of the swan
     seized gladness in the cry of the gannet
     and the sound of the curlew, instead of
     the laughter of men: in the screaming gull,
     instead of the clanking mead-cups.’

What was that supposed to mean? The poem, it turned  out was written by an anonymous poet in Old English. Some said it was a sailor’s lament. Others said that it was an account of a religious hermit in search for God. Would Jim ever be coming back?

Curlews came inland in March for the breeding season, preferring to live most of the year on riverbanks by the sea. Come July, they would be going back there. You had to be careful with nesting birds. They would come at you, screeching in alarm if you got too close to the nest. Whenever she heard their calls reverberating across the valley, she thought of Jim. They became her constant companions.

Whenever she spotted an unfamiliar variety of wildflowers, she looked it up in Wayside and Woodland
Blossoms. There were far more of them than she’d ever imagined. She’d always thought Jack-by-the-Hedge was a weed. It had tiny white flowers and was everywhere. Silver weed, on the other hand, was striking with its feathery leaves which were silver on the underside, but its flowers could easily be mistaken for buttercups. Bistort, an unusual name, she thought, had flowers which looked like pale pink spikes. Bugle reflected the shape of the musical instrument with the same name but unlike the orchid, which it was often taken for, had leaves coming off the stem. It was hard to tell the difference between all the clusters of small white flowers she encountered on Queen Anne’s lace, Earthnut and Ground Elder.

May blossom was everywhere, lighting up the hedgerows. May or hawthorn blossom gave off a delicate, fruity smell, a smell of spring. She remembered the old saying ‘Cast ne’er a clout, till May be out.’ The book said that in pagan times the hawthorn was regarded as a fertility symbol. Hence the ritual of dancing around the Maypole. And in medieval times, people thought hawthorn smelt of the plague and that if you took the blossoms into your house, you would be scourged by illness or death. Thank Goodness the days of magic and superstition were over, she reflected. As a biology teacher she knew that there was often a logical explanation for such beliefs. Dead wood gave off a chemical, called trimethylamine which smelt like decaying animal tissue.

In June, the weather turned windy. The forecast had predicted gusts of up to fifty miles an hour. When she looked out of her bedroom window, the branches of the rowan and elderberry bushes, top-heavy with leaves and blossom, were being blown this way and that. Her fiancé was adrift at sea, being tossed about by the elements. As the branches swayed rhythmically in their hypnotic dance, they seemed to be beckoning her to join them.

Someone had said there were fairy foxgloves growing in the old quarry down by the disused lead mine. According to Wayside Blossoms, they weren’t real foxgloves. They weren’t even native to this country, having been introduced from Alpine regions hundreds of years ago, but they were growing wild in isolated spots. Now was as good a time as any to go and investigate.

She nearly got blown off her feet as she walked along the ridge to the limestone quarry. Once inside the dell, the wind dropped, thankfully. Halfway up the rockface, growing out of cracks in the rock, she spied a clump of tiny, purple flowers. They must be the fairy foxgloves she’d heard of. She needed to take a closer look. She recalled a picture she’d once seen of a long-skirted, Victorian lady, clambering up a rockface in pursuit of some rare variety of fern.

Just as she was nearing the ledge, a curlew came screeching overhead. She must be close to its nest. She put her hand out to protect herself from the encroaching bird. Thoughts of Jim flashed through her mind, as she lost her grip and fell.

Jenny Palmer 
First published in Creative Mind No 5, Preeta Press.

Editor's Note:

This short story is just one piece among thirty in Jenny Palmer's latest book, 'Butterflies and other stories'. It's out now, published by Bridge House.  It is available from Amazon, linked here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Butterflies-Jenny-Palmer/dp/1914199685 and naturally it comes with the highest Dead Good recommendation.

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Flowers - Bloomin' Lovely

The garden is looking sorry for itself. Chopped down for winter, the three intertwined buddleia are naked sticks protruding from the soil, shorter than the fence. They look dead, but I’m sure I haven’t killed them. I can’t say the same for the annoying bindweed that was wrapped tightly around more branches than I realised. It has disappeared for now. Springtime will see it re-emerge, ready to attack, and once again I’ll be fighting the losing battle of trying to keep it away. I’m considering training it on to some trellis somewhere at the side. It is an attractive plant, just damages other things. We’ll see. The buddleia didn’t flower very well and I didn’t see a single butterfly, though I was away for most of the summer.

I'm not a good gardener, home or away, but I make an effort and do my best. Bulbs are planted for spring. I look forward to daffodils, tulips, irises, grape hyacinths and something I’ve never heard of that looked very pretty on the box. I do this every autumn, full of enthusiasm, expecting to grow the best spring garden ever and the wonderful flowers will compensate for every ache and pain. Something is always lacking – green fingers – so, in all seasons I try to plant things that will flower nicely and look after themselves. A favourite is the Totally Tangerine geum. They come back stronger each year. There are two, in different flower beds. In bloom, one is more stunning than the other. The slightly weaker one was bought when I was feeling cross about someone connected to football and I think it shows, but it doesn’t matter now.

I love to have flowers in the house. Last week I was overwhelmed and delighted to be given beautiful roses including yellow ones for friendship from a lovely friend of many years. She didn’t know this, but things have been tough for me lately. The flowers, with their special significance, really helped to cheer me up.

I always have daffodils in remembrance of my father. When he passed away, his garden path was lines with an abundance of shades of yellow, cream and orange created by an amazing display of various daffodils. It’s nice to see them appear in my garden.

I hope I have success with poppies next year. They always look lovely, but can be so delicate that they don’t last very long.

I’ve chosen two poems,

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae 1872-1918

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Branching Out - The Ties That Bind Us

The other day, I found myself having a gentle fight with a buddleia. It is actually three buddleia bushes intertwined and in spite of my best efforts to keep them under control, they are branching out as they wish. The tallest has the deepest purple blooms I’ve ever seen on a buddleia, next to it is a white one which flowers later with huge, fat blooms loved by bees and butterflies. Originally planted in front of them is a pink one, supposed to be miniature but isn’t. They are all beautiful and though it pains me to remove lower branches, I have to make sure my well-established and cherished ‘Totally Tangerine’ geum has enough space and sunshine. Seemingly from nowhere, something else appeared, which is hard to believe because I’m always checking the garden and usually know off the top of my head how many buds are waiting in the wings on the nasturtiums and how many sweet pea stalks have gripped the trellis. This ‘something else’ took me back to my first school days when the walk included a lane where the hedgerow was filled with large, white flowers. It’s something I’ve always remembered, and here it was growing in my own garden, lucky me. It was like ivy on a vine and I loved the nostalgia – until I looked it up and discovered what it really was. Bindweed. It had to go, hence the careful fight with the buddleia where it had wound itself along a few branches. Not many, thankfully, and no damage done, but I believe it is hard to get rid of completely and I’ll have to keep watch. It isn’t just the bindweed keeping me busy.

 I’m also branching out on my family tree following an email from a distant relative. We’ve been in contact before but never met and don’t share a bloodline, but we are linked together by the marriage of our respective great grandparents which puts us on the same branch in our ancestry and we can help each other out with information. Stepping out of my direct bloodline has sent me on a fascinating journey – one of those that starts on Ancestry.co.uk at about nine o’clock p.m. for an hour, but carries on beyond midnight. It’s never ending.

My poem,

Branches of my family tree

Stretching out of my bloodline,

Yet belonging to what is me,

What I consider mine.

I’m gripped by who has gone before,

How they lived and why they died

And how they make me yearn for more,

Despite the many tears I’ve cried

For people I have never known.

Those who lived before my birth,

My kindred spirits having flown

Beyond the confines of this earth,

I will embrace you in Heaven.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, keep safe, Pam x

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Bees - Something Special

Manchester Bee, beautiful, symbolic and instantly recognisable.  My ancestry is firmly rooted in the city, Moss Side, Openshaw, Chorlton-On-Medlock, Ancoats, Stretford, Northenden and more recently Wythenshawe. They rest in Southern Cemetery, some known to me, many others long before my time, my people, my bloodline, my family. Some, my mother’s side, lived in Sale. It was in Cheshire then, affluent, even posh. I’m proud to have been born there and I’m happy that it is part of Greater Manchester now (not everyone is, sorry) because it unites all my family under the same umbrella and I like that. The Manchester Bee is for us all.

The first insect sting I ever had happened in Wythenshawe Park. I was about six I think. Nanna Hetty had taken me out to play and we were sitting on a bench to eat our ice cream. I remember her sitting down first and wafting a bee out of the way for me to sit beside her. The bee must have gone under the wooden slats of the seat to come out again as I sat.  I cried out with pain on my upper leg and there was the bee-sting, sticking out of my skin. Nanna knew what to do and looked after me. I sobbed and sobbed as she got the barb out, taking care not to squeeze. I was brave. Back at her house, the sting area dabbed with vinegar, I soon recovered. Sixty years later, the memory and associated trauma is still strong. Up to now, I haven’t had any more bee stings, but I give them their own space and plenty of respect.

My garden, such as it is – largely concrete ground with planting areas and tubs – has plants attractive to butterflies and bees including buddleia, sunflowers and a geum, beautiful and orangey called Totally Tangerine which I just had to have when we first planted this new garden. It comes back bigger and more bountiful every year, of course.

Reading up about bees, I have learnt that ‘in the old days’ news of a bee-keeper’s death would be passed on to them and their hives would be shrouded in black cloth. This was to reassure bees that they were to stay and carry on.  American poet, John Greenleaf Whittier mentions this in his poem, Telling the Bees.

Last week, a special little ‘Bee’ died. Nine year old Jordan Banks, who played football for Clifton Rangers Bees under 9s, passed away after being struck by lightning.  My heart broke for this beautiful little boy and his family, not known to me, but part of our neighbourhood as he attended our local primary school.  I gave my daughter some flowers to lay at the junior school gate when she took my grandson to school. Yesterday, my son went to see all the flowers and tributes when he took my granddaughter to school. Jordan, doing what he loved, kicking a football about in the fresh air, a selfless young man who did so much for others in his short life.  He was something special.

Tempted as I was to choose Arthur Askey’s ‘The Bee Song’, I opted for Emily Dickinson instead:

The Bee

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.

His labour is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee’s experience
Of clovers and of noon!

                             Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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A Yellow Day

A Yellow Day

I followed the mountain trail waymarked in yellow
To a meadow of dandelions - so yellow and mellow.
The colour amazed me and held me entranced.
Happily I ran through them, I skipped - I danced.

At first glance I wondered at the flowers
For I'd trekked mountain tracks for many hours.
But cresting a rise I happened upon this sight-
Yellow, way into the distance - what a delight.

The path petered out in this verdant display,
So I stopped for lunch and amongst them I lay.
A footpath signpost caught my attention.
Did I tell you it was yellow? Did I mention?

I still recall that glorious day
When I wandered far and further away
Into the mountains - snow covered still,
To breathe in the air and get my fill
Of yellow - yellow flowers - yellow signs -
It was a yellow day.

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Spring Fling

Spring has sprung (sort of). It’s still freezing here in St Anne’s! Hopefully warmer days are coming.

This poem was inspired by a young women who I watched on YouTube who described that falling in love felt like a flower was growing in her chest. I think this is an incredibly beautiful and poetic image as being in love makes you grow as a person.

I’m not a girly girl, but I do adore flowers as they colour the world and they remind me that life is wonderful. Even if you feel left in the dirt, you can grow and achieve anything.

Though I must admit that I definitely do not have green fingers!

Flowers
I feel like there's flowers growing in my chest,
There’s a spring in my step 
You push away the autumn leaves.
The dust.
The dirt. 
So I can finally
breathe.
Your warmth radiates 
And hydrates my dandelion lungs.
Spring has just begun
And soon our summer of heat 
Will commence.
Don’t build a fence 
Around my hyacinth heart .
Let my love grow
Freely and unruly, 
And we will see how it goes,
You never know how long it takes for a flower to grow.

Helena Ascough x

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Verging On Vernal

It is supposed that all poets like to write about flowers, even bad ones  - flowers that is, not poets.

As Saturday's Dead Good Blog prepares to celebrate the indisputable arrival of Spring (after a couple of false starts it feels as though we're verging on vernal now), I figured a botanical-themed piece would be apt.

Accordingly, this week I give you my favourite - and least favourite - flowering plants. I know, contain your excitement! It's a bit like those 'nominate' fads that work their way around Facebook from time to time - e.g. nominate your favourite film by just putting up a picture of the poster, or your favourite album or book by just posting its cover. I always thought it was, if not a pointless exercise, at best a bit of a frustrating experience. I would always want to tell people why I love the examples I've chosen and to understand in turn what it is that they find so compelling about their own choices.

So here first of all is my favourite flower - and I'll just let you enjoy it for a lingering moment before I explain why...

This is primula vialii, more commonly known by a variety of names including Vial's primrose,  orchid primula, red-hot-poker primrose and Chinese pagoda primrose. It is a rosette-forming herbaceous perennial hailing originally from south-west China where it used to thrive in the wet meadowlands of Sichuan and Yunnan provinces - though sadly it is now a rare find in the wild and is classified as an endangered species. (The plant's Latin botanical name was bestowed in honour of Paul Vial, a French missionary priest and scholar who lived and worked in Yunnan province at the end of the 19th century and who is credited with bringing the first specimens of this lovely primula back to Europe.)

Primula vialii is a very striking plant, as I hope you'll agree. Its leaves are typical of the primrose family, lance-shaped and hairy, but its distinctive blooms have an appearance unlike any other in the genus, a beautiful conical spike on top of a stout stalk, with hundreds of lilac corollas opening out from red buds. It is best grown in clumps in a border or cottage garden in a relatively moist (but well-drained) or shady position, grows to a height of about 40cm and flowers through June and July. This lovely plant was granted the RHS Order of Merit in 1993.

I think the reason I like it so much is because of the shape of the blooms and the vibrant and unusual - almost garish - combination of colours, both of which put me in mind of those rocket lollipops on sticks which were popular in my youth. (Maybe they still are?) I intend to be planting some out in my own back garden over the Easter holidays.

Just as Vial's primrose is a herbaceous hero, so another oriental plant must rank as the villain of the piece. I nominate as my fleur du mal  reynoutria japonica - better known as Japanese knotweed (though also called monkeyweed, Hancock's curse and donkey rhubarb)...

It is quite the last thing anyone wants to see springing up in their garden. It can grow to a height of 4 metres and has been classified by the World Conservation Union as one of the most invasive species on the planet. Brought to Europe even earlier than Vial's primrose in the mid-19th century, it was originally favoured by Victorian gardeners for its bamboo-like appearance (though it is not a bamboo) - but it broke out of its cultivated confines and started to spread in the wild via a rapid-growing underground root system. There are now parts of the UK where it is endemic and attempts are being made to stop its spread, even eradicate it. That can entail bringing in heavy plant (no pun intended) to excavate and destroy the root system. The mere existence of Japanese knotweed in an area can send house-prices tumbling. It is a horror loved only by bees! Avoid at all costs and report it if you see it.

Finally, today's poem isn't about my favourite (or even least favourite) bloom, but rather it tries to capture that almost giddy sense of nature exploding into Spring at this time of year along the reaches of my local river, the rippling Wyre...

Wyre Sprung
Sweetened by showers,
hawthorn and campion
burst into confusions of joy.
Bluebells and daffodils ring out.
Blossoms in profusion float
on wind-tide resuscitation.
The blanched rime
of winter's sickness
is thrown off in a flash,
in this flush of timely fresh fever
as quick-coursing Spring
flows up the banks of the Wyre.

(It first appeared in the Lancashire Dead Good Poets'  publication Walking On Wyre, 2014)

Thanks for reading. Enjoy the onset of warm days, S ;-)

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Golestan

Words seemed keen to demostrate their mood-altering prowess to me yesterday.  While waiting to brew up in the staff room, I asked a colleague the ubiquitous "Y'allreet?"  This is usally greeted with the traditional, "Yeah, y'reet?" Instead, she pestered a bloated teabag around a bulbous mug which was wistfully painted with pink flowers and grey curls.  Leaning on the worktop, she didn't answer but let out a long sigh.  I think I saw her soul fall out of her mouth and into the tea but that might have been steam.  This is what Winter does.

My workmate told me that she was fed up with feeling cold and holidays seemed a very long way off.  I could relate.  A client had phoned the department only minutes earlier to book an appointment, pointing out that he couldn't make the end of February as he would be in Mexico on his jollies.  I wished him a marvellous time.  Well, someone ought to be cheerful. 

Back in the staffroom, I decided not to tell my colleague about Mexico.  Instead I told her about the hyacinths I'd bought for my mother at the weekend.  I told her how the smell had hit me when I'd walked into the garden centre.  How it drenched the air with the sense of Spring.  I described the snow drops I'd seen flowering in a neighbour's garden.  This was enough.  A smile was wrought from the promise of blooms to come.  Anticipation replaced fatigue.  Imagined scent seemed to replace the breath she had expelled.

With this in mind, please enjoy these lines by Saadi, the 13th Century Persian poet best known for his works Golestan (The Garden) and Bostan (The Orchard):

If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.

And breathe...

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