There is nothing spectacular about these bushes before me through the window of this coffee shop; with sporadic, springing branches, see-sawing in the summer's end breeze, with August-sun drawn green-gold leaves. They aren't pretty, at all.
But I am comforted by these terribly humble, jagged leaves and the living life they whisper - of a summer growing and tales of warmth in the sun. Their thick and full is waning, the branches of the bush dip and bend, down toward the rest that comes of winter. Dead blooms, withered, hang.
There is nothing speactacular about these bushes.
Yet, they are quiet talking teachers still - professing to any who will wonder long, breeching the 20 minute lingering limit of the shop. Witnesses of the summer's Sun, preachers of bold and right growth, however wiley and sporadic; told in hues that will only ever be fair.
And now, dying deaths without wild witness.
Christ, gentle hand to the bent, broken and pale - liberator of seed, that life to the full might be plentiful to us. He is near.