It is the first day of June and my climbing rose stretches out to the sky and overwhelms the fence which offers it support until that fence bends with its weight. The number of buds would be difficult to calculate even if I were so inclined. I can only imagine the blaze of glory that will stun my senses when all those buds open in the warmth of June sunlight.

And yet there will be people who will pass by with barely a glance at its splendor. There will be people so absorbed in ongoing drama of their everyday lives who will be unfazed by this miracle of floral profusion.

That blindness is so alien to me that it is all but incomprehensible. These are the folks about whom it can be said that they have eyes but do not see.

All my life I have been aware of the presence of beauty in even the smallest places or my surroundings. I've focused on it, nourished my soul on it, sought it out in stars and flowers and sunsets. Just the other day a rainbow displayed in the east after the passing of a storm and went unremarked upon by those around me. To me it seemed to be the essence of what I wished to remember about the day itself.

It is the natural beauty of this world to which I have forever found my soul and it is that beauty that I will recall when I pass from this planet to what ever place I may be bound.