Dahlias were opine of the first plants I ever planted as a kid – drawn solely to the picture on the label, I expected grand dinner-plate-sized blooms and every day that summer I went out and inspected them for growth and buds, all to no avail. I didn’t read the fine print about how late they started blooming, and for a kid that was an interminable exercise in patience and waiting. Throughout that summer, I watched them slowly rise, but by the time it took to get to the blooms it was already August, and the light and wind had change, signifying fall and taking away some of the summer joy that was only present on the front end of the season.
These days dahlias carry different meanings and memories ~ some sorrowful, some hopeful and bright, and some promising of some future assignation for blooms to come closer to fall. A good flower – the kind that lasts for centuries – carries shifting resonance and meaning, offering varied readings as life shifts and changes.
