This could not be much more local: It deals with my precious garden – and, by implication, with the beds and borders of my heart…
I could weep.
But also I could cringe, a worm of embarrassment squirming in my heart.
The beautiful freesias – my favourite flower, their scent so evocative and fine – that I replanted on Saturday did not, as it turned out, have viable roots, and have wilted and died, their delicate heads sunk upon withered chests, their perfume now the rancorous edge to happy memory.
I am subtly ashamed of myself for uprooting and massacring, albeit in innocence, their fragile root system.
I cringe at my blithe expectation that everything I moved from one patch to another would blossom and thrive.
The symbol of this act is as deep as those roots turned out to be shallow.
But, I shall…
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