The butterfly is a flying flower,
The flower a tethered butterfly.
~Ponce Denis Écouchard Lebrun
In almost thirty years of walking around on the grass of the world, she couldn’t recall having spent two minutes alone with a butterfly.
~Barbara Kingsolver from Flight Behavior
Breath in your nostrils,
light in your eyes,
flowers at your feet,
duties at your hand,
the path of right just before you.Then do not grasp at the stars,
but do life’s plain, common work as it comes,
certain that daily duties and daily bread
are the sweetest things in life.~Robert Louis Stevenson
The serene philosophy of the pink rose is steadying. It fragrant, delicate petals open fully and are ready to fall, without regret or disillusion, after only a day in the sun. It is so every summer. One can almost hear their pink, fragrant murmur as they settle down upon the grass: “Summer, summer, it will always be summer.”
~ Rachel Peden
And so it always will be summer when one lets go in the midst of brightness when all is glorious. No cold winds, no unending days of rain, no mildew, no iced walkways, no 18 hours of night every day, no turning brown with rot.
Serene and steadying — with so much brevity.
Let me be strong and serene through all seasons rather than letting go at the height of delicate beauty. Let me thrive steady through the hard times rather than withering at my peak. Let me age, let me turn gray, let me wrinkle.
It may always be summer — someday — but not yet. Not here. Not now.
The daisy follows soft the sun,
And when his golden walk is done,
Sits shyly at his feet.
He, waking, finds the flower near.
“Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?”
“Because, sir, love is sweet!”
We are the flower, Thou the sun!
Forgive us, if as days decline,
We nearer steal to Thee, —
Enamoured of the parting west,
The peace, the flight, the amethyst,
Night’s possibility!
~Emily Dickinson
“In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends.”Â
~ Kozuko OkakuraÂ
We spent a rainy afternoon touring the estate house and gardens at Mount Stewart on the eastern most peninsula in Northern Ireland while the rest of the country here was steeped in heavy security for the G8 Summit happening and President Obama’s arrival in Belfast with his family.  We decided to bypass all the politics and find something beautiful.  We succeeded.
Flowers are present for our most emotional times of life–to celebrate birth and comfort the dying, to show love and celebrate life long unions. Â They are a universal language, no matter the country. Â During our visit to Japan, the whole country was preparing for the annual festivals celebrating sakura, the cherry blossoms that are so beloved there. Â Here in Ireland, spring is late this year, so today we got to enjoy azaleas and rhododendrons and peonies all over again, as they are completely done blooming at home.
We are thrilled to find our floral friends blooming richly here, even with the stress and troubles of the recent decades in Northern Ireland, and the current economic struggles here and elsewhere. Â If the G8 Summiteers have trouble reaching any agreement, they just need to go find a garden to cultivate together. Â Voltaire understood that several centuries ago; Â we need to remind ourselves now that the best of friends will be constant through joy and sorrow.
Rich fresh wine of June, we stagger into you smeared with pollen…
~Marge Piercy from “More Than Enough”
If seeds in the black earth can turn into such beautiful roses, what might not the heart of man become in its long journey toward the stars?
—G.K. Chesterton
We are mere seeds lying dormant, plain and simple, with nothing to distinguish us one from the other until the murmurs of spring begin, so soft, so subtle. The soil shakes loose frosty crust as the thawing warmth begins.  Sunlight makes life stir and swell, no longer frozen but animate and intimate.
We will soon wake from our quiescence to sprout, bloom and fruit. We will reach as far as our tethered roots will allow, beyond earthly bounds to touch the light and be touched.
There is renewed hope seeded in the heart of man, ready and waiting to unfurl, with a precious fragrance that lingers, long after the petal has dried, loosened, and fallen to freedom.
Now wind torments the field,
turning the white surface back
on itself, back and back on itself,
like an animal licking a wound.
A single green sprouting thing
would restore me . . .
Then think of the tall delphinium,
swaying, or the bee when it comes
to the tongue of the burgundy lily.
~Jane Kenyon from “February: Thinking of Flowers”
Barnstorming 