A touch of immortality on the path least traveled….

Dear Diary Page 10…

Hello Diary,

Been venturing down the path least traveled, enjoying the sights and sounds and interesting folk that are different in some form or other…smile… a busy time preparing for the winter solstice that will come in time….started a new planting of mums

And as I was venturing about the yard, came across the roses, looking a bit sad and forlorn…


they have almost run their course (as has summer), preparing for a winters sleep to awaken to springs warmth… and will continue to do so long as no catastrophic event happens to prevent it… a sort of immortality, unlike this ole mortal who is unable to return after his course has been run…but, I suppose there is a sort of immortality in “memories”, assuming someone cares to remember… again thought of this poem..

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamonds glints in the snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain
When you awaking in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the soft star that shines at night
Do not stand by my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die
(author unknown)

Gives one pause for thought…. looking at those blossoms, falling off one by one, leaving the last rose… one thinks about history’s past and it’s much like ones life, as over time friends, family “fall off” one by one, till one is alone and becomes the “last rose of summer”… before her passing, I and my wife chatted about it, and she said she was like the last rose, so I showed her this poem by Thomas Moore..

The Last Rose of Summer… (Thomas Moore)

Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

And with that, I shall leave you, Dear Diary, with the poem and a lovely version done by Andre Rieu… as I continue on down the path least traveled (contemplating immortality or the lack of..smile), Fate be willin’ and the creeks don’t rise…


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