The winters coat is hard and glowing with the frozen moisture, and it shines almost with a feeling of spite; the leaves are gone, the flowers of the clematis, are memories so much in the past, that they cannot be thought of with the right description at hand.
Purple petals. To plain. To hard. A white, beaten, awful trellis, leaned against the pole of iron placed sixty years ago. Nothing hangs, no fruit, no limbs, nothing.
April appears out of the frightful threat of snow, green grass making its way up ever so slowly. The warmth of spring is in something close to full affect. With the morning coming and the winds performing, the flowers bloom, the green glossy leaves are stretching out to the sun, pouring themselves out with crisp delight.
Purple flowers. Purple with white variegation, center pins with frocked yellow centers, curling inward. Deep essence of dark purple. White blooms, so purely white, with the outermost petal, painted with stripes of precious blues.
Only one plant; three feet tall, two feet wide, and a dozen flowers, so much for the eyes, they take the very view.
Ralph Peck
Photograph by Ralph Peck
Claremore, Oklahoma
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