These pansies made it through the frost last week because we protected them. With white freeze blankets, my husband and I covered as many flowers and plants as we could manage. Our yard looked as if it had been overrun by ghosts; it was worth it to save the beauties.
Today I contemplated these pansies, the star shapes inside, the concentric “circles,” the complimentary and harmonious colors, and the thin velvety feel to my fingers. Ultimately, what I wanted to say was in the Hopkins poem “Pied Beauty.” No point of saying anything else.
Pied Beauty
Glory be to God for dappled things –For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.All things counter, original, spare, strange;Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:Praise him.
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For more on “small stones,” you can read my first post on the subject. It’s all about this: find a moment in which to be mindful and record it.
