No one noticed when the first petal fell. The sprawling rose covers the trellis, draping like a curtain and concealing the remnants of a water fountain. The only recognizable features are the life-like renderings of robins splashing in the bottom catch basin. I can’t help wondering what it must have been like with water flowing from the smallest top bowl, descending one bowl after another, each with its distinct character, decorated with vines and cupids. There’s no turning from the shadows of our wanted lives.
My imagination fills the surrounding garden with the details of its past. It took time to recognize the bird bath, hidden in the branches of a lilac and overflowing with fallen leaves. The iris patch is barely distinguishable except for the occasional blade-shaped leaf pushing out of the overgrowth. In my mind, I can see its bright indigo flowers of spring reaching toward the sun. The flagstone path lies scattered in disarray, but the beauty of the hand-laid craftsmanship tells the story of the gardener and a labor of love.
Most notable in the garden is the arbor covering the path, the fine latticework from a forgotten time, holding strong under the mass of vines from an ancient wisteria, covered with the fine points of flower buds. I can’t help but dream what it will be like to walk under this arbor covered with lavender flowers, flowing with elegant randomness. There’s no acceptance of withdrawn compassion, refuted tolerance, and environmental indifference––the shades of fallen petals. The garden is unkempt but alive with possibility, and as the days lengthen and winter turns to spring, fresh green leaves and flowers of violet and white will fill the garden with the life of a fresh season.