The flowers this early morning at the garden at 93rd St. in Riverside Park were so miraculous. I woke up early, way too early for the recoup in sleep that I had hoped to gain, but there they were, waiting. Roses, irises, peonies, everything so beautiful and glorious on this cloudy day, with no competition. This is one of the things I love in New York, one of those things that isn't in a tourist guide book, because its beauty extends beyond a few days, a week, or a month. Every morning that I manage to visit it, it's different. It's alive and changing, and so is the world around it.
A sense of wonder. I ran around it once, and then in reverse, and then again, waiting for that sense to fade with all the many angles that a garden can exude. Fading with multiple journeys around and around.
I'm grateful to have this beautiful, tangible thing to exhaust, even if only for a morning before it must be renewed. If only there were some way to run laps around years, around people, around music and art, around thoughts that come and go.
No comments:
Post a Comment