Morning will come

Classic morning glory, open to the morning sun.  Long ago I grew these on my terrace, in containers of soil I lugged from the hardware store.  By now, the end of April, the seeds would be ready for planting.  Burpee (wonderful name), clipped and soaked overnight.  In a couple of weeks they would germinate, then the vines would grow, soon to bring forth heart-shaped leaves. By then you'd better have sticks for them to climb and climb, and by June in the concrete heart of Manhattan they would begin to bud.  Then one morning, as I opened the blinds on my south-facing window, the sparkling blue flowers would greet me like music from another world.  They live for a day -- by late afternoon a dull purple, curl up, die.  But tomorrow, other, different, more flowers. 

I grew other things out there -- marigolds, phlox, and one year moonflowers -- a sort of ghostly white variation on the morning glory which bloomed at dusk, with an insatiable vine that would grab a broom, a fence, anything within reach.  But always the blue wonders of the morning, perfectly named, perfectly glorious. 

In a time of unparalleled ugliness, I choose to spend a day thinking about something graceful and beautiful.