“Here’s your tea, luv.” The down-beat of “luv”, sotto voce, his dead foliage voice, was the catalyst.
Harry was a polyglot. He spoke the language of flowers, communing with them as he trimmed and transplanted. Each plant elicited a unique coo, and a song. Spring was Ode to Joy. Fall was Mozart’s Requiem Mass which he was humming as he placed the foxglove tea bedside.
The authority of reconstituted foxglove blooms revived Lady Smock. Her heart raced and she rose from bed, retrieved her gardening gloves and plunged them into soil damp with expectation.
Harry hummed his seedling song – Hallelujah!