What I liked best was how each thing gave to another: The leaves of a large plant shaded the blossoms of its brother. Water passed from the soaked ivy to the parched flowers in the pots below.
That small garden was all one thing. The death of a single plant is a tragedy.
So as to heal it, I tried to come to it with love, as I did the rose in its black pot and the wild evergreen nodding in the spray, and as I also tried to come to God, standing before the wall of ivy, like a flower bowing in a heavy rain.
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