All Living Things Die


One has a bone – deep understanding of this stern fact of life in a garden.

I absorb it painlessly as the leaves shrivel and fall in a gentle rain. As flowers fade and droop to the earth. As a tired butterfly flutters to the ground to die. Like the inevitability of sunset, it all seems necessary and fitting.

But whoseever loves a garden, will also surely understand the meaning of rebirth. The naked trunks of trees are suddenly clothed in tender green shoots.

Flowers whose season is done bear scores of seeds within their whithered hearts. And if it is night, can dawn be far behind?

The ultimate message a garden holds is a triumphant one. All living thing grow old and die. Only to be reborn – fresh and new again.

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