Oh, how they hold the sun, these gloriously yellow gerbera blooms. Kin to dahlias, daisies, marigolds, calendulas, coneflowers, chrysanthemums, zinnias, and the great towering sunflowers, they drink in midsummer's morning light and store it within the frilly tutus of their lavish petals.
Then they dish it out like honey, and even the old garden roses behind are them moved and uplifted by their frothy golden magnificence, their almost imperceptible swaying movement, the soft, sighing music of their duet with the wind.
Now and then, I falter in winter as all living northern creatures must from time to time. I mourn the paucity of light in the snowy world beyond the windows and find myself filled with vague longings and a gentle melancholy.
Then I remember how my garden loves the light in summer. I am renewed by the remembrance, and I do a little blooming of my own within.