Along the meandering Southwest Corridor Park of the South End, pockets of pulchritude lie hidden in wait for any unsuspecting passers-by to happen upon them. Little jewels, like this mound of white flowers, flutter in the fall breeze, a visual foreshadowing of a snow-laced winter to come. That elicits a slight shudder. How dare I mention the W-word at this early stage of the game. No one wants to hear that just yet.
But snow blossoms, they’re another story. I’ll always have room for a white flower. A sign of innocence, a pretend vow of purity, even if no flower is ever truly innocent. They want for nothing more than to procreate like everyone else, and devise the most ingenious ways of doing so. We’ll leave that for another post, however, for on this day, on this morning, we want only to take in the virtuous beauty.
