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Beneath an old wall, scented with earth and memory, the hydrangea has emerged
a flower with petals like the ruffled skirts of childhood, painted in the pink of kindness and ancient rains.
It does not bloom with a shout, but with silence
quiet, unassuming, yet magnificent.
As if all the tenderness of nature had gathered within it.
Each cluster of blossoms is a mass of emotion
the kind that cannot be spoken, only seen, only felt.
Hydrangea is the child of kind soil and gentle sun.
Born of balance;
it does not long for harsh heat nor does it crave biting cold.
All it needs is a hand to water it,
a gaze to love it,
and a heart that understands its presence.
Perhaps that is why, when it grows beside a weathered, dust-stained wall,
it gently reminds us:
Beauty needs no stage. It only needs to be
in silence, in grace. 18 replies
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