Death of Dahlia

For those of you who have been following the near demise and triumphant return of Dahlia and the Slugs, I am sorry to announce today that she did not survive the frost last night. I thought of taking a picture, but I think it’s better if we don’t. Let’s just remember Dahlia the way she was yesterday — green and ready to bloom. Rest in peace, dear Dahlia.

I think we looked at this poem this spring when it looked like winter would never give up, but let’s see it once more for Dahlia’s sake and for the sake of the leaves now falling in buckets off the trees.

Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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