Dying Hosta always remind me of my mother in the final days of her life. It may be the beauty of their pallid hues - white, creamy beiges, grays and hints of blue. It may be their weakness. It may be the leaf stalks reaching out like arms, the leaves resting like hands, waiting to be picked up and held...
The red maple leaf seems like a Remembrance Day poppy, though I did not place it there.
Perhaps I left it there for what it symbolizes. I'm never sure about things like that. I do know that each year, when my stunning hostas complete their vibrant lives in what seems like serene and quiet death, I feel a pervading sadness. It is finished, and there is nothing more I can say or do.
And yet the hostas come back to life in the spring, and my mother too lives on. It is because of her that I have a garden.