These lovelies grow in a yard along one of my running routes. Seeing them in full bloom yesterday was such a gift because I've been waiting for them for months.
I know the faithful gardener who tends them did not plant them for me but in discovery and appreciation I feel like they belong to me in a small, vicarious/irrational sense.
I wish I would have thought to take pictures of their barren stumps this winter. Sometime in late fall the dried stalks were cut all the way down to the ground. They looked dead and utterly devastated. It was hard to imagine them ever coming back to life.
But here they are because in truth they only really perished in appearance. Their roots, buried deep beneath shears and frost, continued to grow.
And though the blossoms and leaves of last year remain lost casualties of the unrelenting spin of seasons, new buds have come to replace what life was taken.
For me, these fragile, vital petals exude such hope -
hope as real and fragrant as their delicate scent.
(and yes the raindrops are real - the kind Fraulein Maria sang about)