Easter morning glory – a life of one day

  

    

According to my habit of giving the weekly-photo-challenge’s topic a metaphorical turn, I want to tell a photo-story about a life that takes only one day. It remains „one day in my life”, but it is the only day and me is not me. BTW, there is a Dutch novel about a hypothetical world where people have only one day to be born, live all their lives, and die. Old masters of literary art and philosophy have used the idea of „living but a day” metaphorically to express the shortness of human life or to show our impossibility to rule it exceeding the span of today)

According to my another habit, the story will be told by pictures of flowers.

Actually, one flower, the morning glory.

People who didn’t have them grown in their gardens have no idea that the flowers of ipomoea last only one day. Their buds, developing for about a week are hanging head-down, and start to rise only one day before they are ripe to open up early in the next morning, or late in the night. They are quickly spreading the calyx within 2-3 dawn hours to greet the morning sun in full glory looking in its face.

In early afternoon (it depends on weather if it is noon or about 3 PM), they start to wilt rapidly and in the evening their glory is gone. They lose both their calyx’s open cup-shape and its erected position. But even then they don’t become shapeless in a chaotic way, because their calyx is first a loose pink-blue dress of angelic delicacy, then it is closing inwardly, shrinking down equally as if it melted like glass chalice in a hot oven.

I made earlier a post here about my morning-glory plant I rescued before winter.

Winter morning glory

December blossom
– no surprise if you follow
small turns of long stems

As you see, the plant has been alive all winter, although it remained small, developing only some blossoms. Being certainly not a good specimen of its species, it has its merits.

In the last days, I removed its dry parts to make place for another life: the last photo in today’s gallery shows the germ of a castor-oil plant, whose rising – if I see good – is being watched by a small white winged figure, sort of sitting on a stone wall. Or am I wrong?

 

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