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When I go back to earth
And all my joyous body
Puts off the red and white
That once had been so proud,
If men should pass above
With false and feeble pity,
My dust will find a voice
To answer them aloud:

“Be still, I am content,
Take back your poor compassion—
Joy was a flame in me
Too steady to destroy.
Lithe as a bending reed
Loving the storm that sways her—
I found more joy in sorrow
Than you could find in joy.”


The Answer, by Sara Teasdale


Coming through town on my way to work I pass a somewhat bleak stretch of road containing such places as the water treatment plant, an auto body shop, a shellfish packing company, a bottle redemption center, a construction company, and a place selling gravestones. This little vignette has been catching my eye as I go by and raising questions in my mind. Who, exactly, had bothered to place these plants out there? Are they real, and if so who tends them? Today the road was empty behind me, so I stopped, rolled down the window, and snapped a quick photo. The incongruity of the the scene put me in mind of the poem above.