A perfect dahlia
This is the sermon my garden preaches to me every day. I’ve come to think God actually lives in my garden boxes, among other places of course. The chive blossom, pink and pokey. The sparrow fledgling, frowny faced and endlessly cheeping. The aphid infestation, manifesting in folded leaves of rainbow chard. Even the grasshopper plague, slowly diminishing my garden, all preaching the same message. Here in my garden, with disease, death, weeds, unfinished planting and scores of awkward bloomers, reside an unequivocal wholeness.
So yes, I buy too many plants. And yes, I struggle to plant them. But hallelujah anyway. Because even if that dahlia never gets out of its pot or heaven forbid, goes the way of the fried egg poppy, it still was the perfect dahlia.