Brief glory of flower-upholstered deserts.
Alpine flowers in the high, thin, whimpering air with near snow.
And trees. Great God, the trees!
It was, taken by itself, a many lifetimes.
All good.
All beautiful.
A great magic given to the modern man who thought of beauty never. Or who thought beauty was a ship's engine, or the line of high ferroconcrete, or the color scheme of a porch, or—adoring Christ forgive us, a new car! Something he made, anyhow.
This was some of my lives.
Ricky had shared a number of them with me—created and divided the hours and days in the years of the flowers.
Why should I wonder concerning anything, who knew and loved flowers like this—why not, in the continual floral celebrations, take all content from marvel itself?
Men missed it, most of them.
Generals detailed insensate GIs to set square borders of ageratum around the headquarters lawn.