This summer's garden is bright with flaming zinnias and immense spiked dahlias. A lone sunflower has appeared in golden glory in the midst of the bean patch, thanks to songbirds gathering seeds and spilling their largesse among the vegetables. These volunteer sunflowers, and the pink phlox burgeoning at the edges of the yard, are reminders that not all of summer's beauty needs to be sown and planted by me. But this afternoon's special surprise was a lone blue Passion Flower crowning a tall vine, its base hidden among the peony bushes whose flowering is long past.
The Passion Flower is a peculiar blossom, blue and white petals and
sepals enclosing a purple crown of tiny filaments, edged in black. The
legend is that these flowers were used by the Spanish conquistadors to
teach the natives of the Southwest and Mexico the story of Christ's
passion (i.e. "suffering") on the cross. The 10 petals represent the
faithful disciples (minus Judas the betrayer and Peter the denier).
The central parts of the flower represent the three nails and the five
wounds of Christ, positioned in the middle of the crown of thorns.
There are other mystical meanings that are sometimes found as well.
But today, this blossom takes me back to my grandmother's garden in
front of her little house on Ripley Street in Davenport, Iowa. In her
aproned housedress and practical black shoes, she bent her tiny frame to
show me the jack-in-the pulpits hiding in the shade, and to hold a
passion flower blossom tenderly in her hand as she shared the ancient
story of her faith. Today she walks again in my back yard.
Passion Flower
Blue as heaven
this holy blossom
nods at summer sun,
warm with life.
I see the mystical signs,
the numbered petals
and the dainty crown of thorns,
but I remember mostly this:
the old hand, work worn,
of my dwindling grandmother,
cradling a passion flower
as if it were a miracle,
which it was.
As she bent close,
her small, wire-rimmed glasses
reflected blue and white petals,
so that her eyes, her being,
knew everything about passion
and joy.
--Timothy Haut
Passion Flower
Blue as heaven
this holy blossom
nods at summer sun,
warm with life.
I see the mystical signs,
the numbered petals
and the dainty crown of thorns,
but I remember mostly this:
the old hand, work worn,
of my dwindling grandmother,
cradling a passion flower
as if it were a miracle,
which it was.
As she bent close,
her small, wire-rimmed glasses
reflected blue and white petals,
so that her eyes, her being,
knew everything about passion
and joy.
--Timothy Haut
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