| General Fiction posted November 23, 2020 |
  |
The language of flowers /prose
Perennials
by zanya
Crocuses were just showing off their vivid colours. Spring's harbinger, the perennial daffodil, was already swaying in the Spring breeze. We could afford to be somewhat nonchalant. Brighter days were on the way. Soon summer's heat and warm days would smile on us.
A pandemic, our experts told us was unfolding in our midst. We still carried on with our daily lives and chores, half lending an ear to the dire warnings. We had never lived through a pandemic before. We weren't quite sure how to go about it. Gradually though, we began to scrub our hands and mask our faces. This was serious.
Daffodils soon died away leaving only their green stems behind. Crocuses were now but a memory.
Nevertheless, summer days beckoned. We could live outdoors more, have picnics, take long walks, swim in the sea.
The pandemic was by now tightening its frightening noose. Distancing was the key. We began to feel isolated, bereft even.
Wildflowers sprouted intermittently. Lilacs bloomed and filled the air with their classic aroma. A feast for our senses.
At least Mother Nature's rhythms still seemed to be turning in the usual way.
Numbers of deaths and infected from the pandemic rose.
Things were now assuming a very serious air. We had to follow the guidelines, stay home as much as possible.
Our gardens and flowerbeds began to take on greater significance.
Green-fingered or not, we could spend some times outdoors, even if our patch was weed infested. Here was a chance to take a second look at our little 'acre', to lavish a little love on its stony demeanour, help it to produce some growth, be it salad or veggies or a few colorful flowers.
Our hands would be embedded in the soil of the earth, a totally different feel to the keyboard of our computer. Some of us, awash with the happy neurons after a few hours in the garden, stared at our chapped, red hands. A whole new vista. That didn't hinder our gardening efforts on subsequent days.
Experts zoomed into our living rooms and kitchens with lots of advice for the novice gardener. We began to take notice. Maybe life was about more than scrolling endlessly on our nearby gadget.
The pandemic raged. Chilly autumn breezes began to blow through the trees and around the eaves. We were still hunkering down.
Our lettuce began to look bedraggled under the autumn rain. Salad sprouting on the windowsill was not such an exciting prospect to collect on wet, gray autumn days.
The days began to grow shorter. Light faded by 5p.m. Our tired screen eyes could no longer peer at the rain-soaked cabbages through a torrential downpour.
Was gardening going to lose its lustre just when it was beginning to hold some promise of a respite from never-ending pandemic laden news?
The last few withered rose leaves fell, soaked, on the patio slabs. Autumn in the garden was beginning to look drab.
Autumn's leaf mosaic of red, russet and orange cheered our drooping spirits for a few weeks as they first began to fall, crisp and dry from the trees. Childhood memories may have bubbled up as we waded through them on our daily mile walk.
But then we began to include a potted cactus or two in our weekly shop. Atop the fridge, they brought us a moment of distraction.
And now almost a year has passed and winter beckons once again. Our newly- green fingers are itching for activity, the cool touch of soil on our fingertips.
All is not yet lost. There is still a little gardening we can do. Something for the future when the deadly pandemic may have weakened its grip.
Spring bulbs of every shape and size stand in stores in pretty ceramic pots or colorful paper bags just waiting to be planted.
The year of the pandemic is drawing to a close as we search for a successful vaccine. The news appears to be promising.
Meanwhile, we can plan our very own floral spring display with an array of Spring's first flowers on our window sill or patio.
Whose spirit will not lift with the sight of golden daffodils when Spring 2020 rolls around and the pandemic is beginning to fade from memory?
The Language of flower contest entry
Crocuses were just showing off their vivid colours. Spring's harbinger, the perennial daffodil, was already swaying in the Spring breeze. We could afford to be somewhat nonchalant. Brighter days were on the way. Soon summer's heat and warm days would smile on us.
A pandemic, our experts told us was unfolding in our midst. We still carried on with our daily lives and chores, half lending an ear to the dire warnings. We had never lived through a pandemic before. We weren't quite sure how to go about it. Gradually though, we began to scrub our hands and mask our faces. This was serious.
Daffodils soon died away leaving only their green stems behind. Crocuses were now but a memory.
Nevertheless, summer days beckoned. We could live outdoors more, have picnics, take long walks, swim in the sea.
The pandemic was by now tightening its frightening noose. Distancing was the key. We began to feel isolated, bereft even.
Wildflowers sprouted intermittently. Lilacs bloomed and filled the air with their classic aroma. A feast for our senses.
At least Mother Nature's rhythms still seemed to be turning in the usual way.
Numbers of deaths and infected from the pandemic rose.
Things were now assuming a very serious air. We had to follow the guidelines, stay home as much as possible.
Our gardens and flowerbeds began to take on greater significance.
Green-fingered or not, we could spend some times outdoors, even if our patch was weed infested. Here was a chance to take a second look at our little 'acre', to lavish a little love on its stony demeanour, help it to produce some growth, be it salad or veggies or a few colorful flowers.
Our hands would be embedded in the soil of the earth, a totally different feel to the keyboard of our computer. Some of us, awash with the happy neurons after a few hours in the garden, stared at our chapped, red hands. A whole new vista. That didn't hinder our gardening efforts on subsequent days.
Experts zoomed into our living rooms and kitchens with lots of advice for the novice gardener. We began to take notice. Maybe life was about more than scrolling endlessly on our nearby gadget.
The pandemic raged. Chilly autumn breezes began to blow through the trees and around the eaves. We were still hunkering down.
Our lettuce began to look bedraggled under the autumn rain. Salad sprouting on the windowsill was not such an exciting prospect to collect on wet, gray autumn days.
The days began to grow shorter. Light faded by 5p.m. Our tired screen eyes could no longer peer at the rain-soaked cabbages through a torrential downpour.
Was gardening going to lose its lustre just when it was beginning to hold some promise of a respite from never-ending pandemic laden news?
The last few withered rose leaves fell, soaked, on the patio slabs. Autumn in the garden was beginning to look drab.
Autumn's leaf mosaic of red, russet and orange cheered our drooping spirits for a few weeks as they first began to fall, crisp and dry from the trees. Childhood memories may have bubbled up as we waded through them on our daily mile walk.
But then we began to include a potted cactus or two in our weekly shop. Atop the fridge, they brought us a moment of distraction.
And now almost a year has passed and winter beckons once again. Our newly- green fingers are itching for activity, the cool touch of soil on our fingertips.
All is not yet lost. There is still a little gardening we can do. Something for the future when the deadly pandemic may have weakened its grip.
Spring bulbs of every shape and size stand in stores in pretty ceramic pots or colorful paper bags just waiting to be planted.
The year of the pandemic is drawing to a close as we search for a successful vaccine. The news appears to be promising.
Meanwhile, we can plan our very own floral spring display with an array of Spring's first flowers on our window sill or patio.
Whose spirit will not lift with the sight of golden daffodils when Spring 2020 rolls around and the pandemic is beginning to fade from memory?
A pandemic, our experts told us was unfolding in our midst. We still carried on with our daily lives and chores, half lending an ear to the dire warnings. We had never lived through a pandemic before. We weren't quite sure how to go about it. Gradually though, we began to scrub our hands and mask our faces. This was serious.
Daffodils soon died away leaving only their green stems behind. Crocuses were now but a memory.
Nevertheless, summer days beckoned. We could live outdoors more, have picnics, take long walks, swim in the sea.
The pandemic was by now tightening its frightening noose. Distancing was the key. We began to feel isolated, bereft even.
Wildflowers sprouted intermittently. Lilacs bloomed and filled the air with their classic aroma. A feast for our senses.
At least Mother Nature's rhythms still seemed to be turning in the usual way.
Numbers of deaths and infected from the pandemic rose.
Things were now assuming a very serious air. We had to follow the guidelines, stay home as much as possible.
Our gardens and flowerbeds began to take on greater significance.
Green-fingered or not, we could spend some times outdoors, even if our patch was weed infested. Here was a chance to take a second look at our little 'acre', to lavish a little love on its stony demeanour, help it to produce some growth, be it salad or veggies or a few colorful flowers.
Our hands would be embedded in the soil of the earth, a totally different feel to the keyboard of our computer. Some of us, awash with the happy neurons after a few hours in the garden, stared at our chapped, red hands. A whole new vista. That didn't hinder our gardening efforts on subsequent days.
Experts zoomed into our living rooms and kitchens with lots of advice for the novice gardener. We began to take notice. Maybe life was about more than scrolling endlessly on our nearby gadget.
The pandemic raged. Chilly autumn breezes began to blow through the trees and around the eaves. We were still hunkering down.
Our lettuce began to look bedraggled under the autumn rain. Salad sprouting on the windowsill was not such an exciting prospect to collect on wet, gray autumn days.
The days began to grow shorter. Light faded by 5p.m. Our tired screen eyes could no longer peer at the rain-soaked cabbages through a torrential downpour.
Was gardening going to lose its lustre just when it was beginning to hold some promise of a respite from never-ending pandemic laden news?
The last few withered rose leaves fell, soaked, on the patio slabs. Autumn in the garden was beginning to look drab.
Autumn's leaf mosaic of red, russet and orange cheered our drooping spirits for a few weeks as they first began to fall, crisp and dry from the trees. Childhood memories may have bubbled up as we waded through them on our daily mile walk.
But then we began to include a potted cactus or two in our weekly shop. Atop the fridge, they brought us a moment of distraction.
And now almost a year has passed and winter beckons once again. Our newly- green fingers are itching for activity, the cool touch of soil on our fingertips.
All is not yet lost. There is still a little gardening we can do. Something for the future when the deadly pandemic may have weakened its grip.
Spring bulbs of every shape and size stand in stores in pretty ceramic pots or colorful paper bags just waiting to be planted.
The year of the pandemic is drawing to a close as we search for a successful vaccine. The news appears to be promising.
Meanwhile, we can plan our very own floral spring display with an array of Spring's first flowers on our window sill or patio.
Whose spirit will not lift with the sight of golden daffodils when Spring 2020 rolls around and the pandemic is beginning to fade from memory?
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