In Charlotte we used to have morning glories

That wound around the pillar on our front porch

They greeted me with periwinkle beauty each morning

I miss those morning glories

Here at the cottage

It is the tiger lilies that are my strongest memory

Funny how a flower can recall a place

A feeling

But the tiger lilies sleep in the morning

Awaiting the afternoon sun

Their vibrance drinking in the warmth

Even as I drink in the beauty of this place

Morning is still my favorite time here

The world quiet and new

His mercies new every morning

Every day a new fresh canvas for us to fill

I walk down to the dock to catch

The morning mist across the lake

Obscuring the houses

They look like fairy houses from this distance

Even more with the shimmering mist

My footprints leaving impressions in the dew

And the leaves talk to each other

In the gentle breeze

Cold enough to require a sweater on this summer morning

The row boat sits unused

And I think perhaps I will take it out today

Though I prefer the glorious speed of the motor boat

The wind whipping my hair

Joyous

And I walk around to the front of the cottage

So unassuming and small from this side

Hiding the wider level beneath

The two rooms with their banks of windows

Taking in the view

The neighbor’s roses beckon

Perfect in their riotous pink

Brazenly showing off their contrasting color

In a world tinged with all shades of blue and green and brown

Smaller lavender shaded flowers no less glorious

In their subtle shades of white and purple

And I think about the book I am reading

About how God made the world good

How this beauty reveals something of his character

His love

We twist what is good

But it is still there

Creation singing the glory of God

Like the angels the song never ceasing

The watering can reminds us to water the flowers

Though a storm did a pretty good job of that the other day already

I thought perhaps the strength of the wind would uproot the delicate petals

But it didn’t

They were stronger than they looked

And I think again of flowers

How you can cut back morning glories only to have them grow again

How a flower that looks dead can only be sleeping

How something delicate can also be strong

I think I am like a flower

Bruised and cut back, replanted

With a few petals missing

But growing in the light of His goodness

His word and this place

Refreshing my soul