Today I took the guilty pleasure of a real day off, my first in a month or so. I finished a short story I’ve been struggling with for two and a half months, lingered over a cheeseburger and a book that made me laugh, and went for a walk at the botanical garden. (There was also vacuuming, laundry, drain cleaning, dishes, and an abortive burner-cleaning attempt that ended when I burned my fingers because I forgot I’d boiled a pot of water on that burner less than five minutes earlier.)

Before I get to the flower photos, some gratuitous pet shots:

They’re gargoyles on the bookshelf! But Zuli is a pill; whenever she’s doing something cute and I get the camera out, she runs away. This is why I do not have any bookshelf closeups or pictures of her foray into a fabric shopping bag tonight.

And now to Sunday afternoon at the Garden of the Coastal Plain:

The air smells like wisteria right now.

I need to buy a guide to learn all the flower and tree names. Unless they have little identifying signs, I’m lost.

Not sure what these red leaves are, but they’re lovely.

This stunning tree is Eastern bluestar (which I know only because of the helpful sign at the base).

Here’s a furled leaf, with the green tip barely peeking out (it looks like a frog, but it isn’t; of course I checked):

I love camellias, but they seem to be past their peak.

For my mom, azaleas (okay, those I knew without a sign; I did live in Savannah for seven years):

Canna lilies:

Swamp azalea:

There are sculptures scattered throughout the garden, but unfortunately there don’t appear to be identifying plaques, so I cannot credit the artist:

Of course I have to include at least one dying flower. I often find dead and dying flowers as beautiful, in their own way, as those at the peak of their bloom. (And when I photograph them, I usually catch myself singing The Sisters of Mercy’s “Flood I”: I’ll be picking up your petals in another few hours/ In the metal and blood, in the scent and mascara/ On a backcloth of lashes and stars/ in a flood of your tears. Perfect song for going home in the rain after a bad night at a bar. Sometimes I miss those.)

There’s a stand of longleaf pine, which need fire to reproduce. Garden staff must have held a controlled burn recently; the smell of woodsmoke lingers in the air, but a few green shoots are poking out of the ground. The swamp azalea were brilliant across the burned area.

The swamp azaleas are draped with longleaf pine needles. It’s quite a beautiful effect.

Lately I have been obsessed with the Afghan Whigs song “Faded.” I’ve been playing the entire Black Love album on constant repeat, in fact. Faded, this I feel/ Behind the blue clouds I remain concealed/ Lord, lift me out of the night/ Come on, look down and see the mess I’m in tonight.

Gardens in springtime always bring to mind The The’s song “Love Is Stronger than Death,” five words I am someday going to have tattooed on my wrist where I can look at them every time I need a reminder, the many times every day that I think about death.

Here come the blue skies/ Here comes springtime/ When the rivers run high and the tears run dry/ When everything that dies shall rise/ Love is stronger than death.

This is what, on good days, I hold.