in the sunshine they’re a brilliant white, impossible to ignore even with the competition vying for the viewer’s attention (pick me! no me!)
but in the foggy mornings and the moonlit nights, they take on a gray cast, jane eyre on the moors or the french lieutenant’s woman. (literary allusions are free today.)
they, unlike the other flowers from my past, except for perhaps the columbine, remind me of the women who raised me–mother, mary, grandmothers. i try not to read to much into it; it is just as it should be.