“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops — at all….
As with any degree or amount of loss, there is almost always some inevitable gift of gain, which thankfully acts as a counterweight to the heaviness and burden born on the wings of the taking away.
In this case, a late season bloom, on a bush thought killed by late spring snows. Blooms which should have filled the landscape in the season of abundance, finally sprout forth just in the nick of time–time to mix with the forthcoming rusts and coppers, golds and crimsons of the brilliant season of decay and loss.
The counterweight of loss now sings the tune without words, and we are the better for it.