The flowers of Antarctica bloom in unexpected gardens; look for them in the lonely places, in the quiet remove. There are no roses here; this is not a land of lush petals and profusion. Here are the hidden treasures, the subtle wisdom, the greatest rewards given only after the longest searches.
Blue light blooms in the ice and a thousand hues of white. Intangible blossoms of evanescent beauty, gone before you can turn to see them, then appearing again in another moment, another place.
Sweet green blooms in the emerald mosses, in the ultimate instant of the sunset, in shadows on the sea. The color of growth, of forests, surprises us here like an old friendship, half remembered, unexpected.
Black blooms in the dark mountains that tear the ice like teeth, in round rocks underfoot, in the rolling backs of leviathans. Golden orange blooms in feathers and in the skies. Crimson blooms in blood.
Rainbows bloom beneath the sea. In this deep corner of the garden, restraint is forgotten, crazed colors compete, shoulder each other aside, burst into our eyes like sunrise, like a fanfare following a whispered prayer.
The flowers of Antarctica bloom all around us and disappear; but they remain in our minds, always.
