'Leaves wither because winter begins; but they also wither because spring is already beginning, because new buds are being made, as tiny as percussion caps out of which the spring will crack.  It is an optical illusion that trees and bushes are naked in autumn; they are, in fact, sprinkled over with everything that will unpack and unroll in spring.  It is only an optical illusion that my flowers die in autumn; for in reality they are born.  We say that nature rests, yet she is working like mad.  She has only shut up shop and pulled the shutters down; but behind them she is unpacking new goods, and he shelves are becoming so full that they bend under the load.  This is the real spring; what is not done now will not be done in April.  The future is not in front of us, for it is here already in the shape of a germ; already it is with us; and what is not with us will not be even in the future.  We don't see germs because they are under the earth; we don't know the future because it is within us.  Sometimes we seem to smell of decay, encumbered by the faded remains of the past but if only we could see how many fat and white shoots are pushing forward in the old tilled soil, which is called the present day; how many seeds germinate in secret; how many old plants draw themselves together and concentrate into a living bud, which one day will burst into flowering life -- if we could only see that secret swarming of the future within us, we should say that our melancholy and distrust is silly and absurd, and that the best thing of all is to be a living man -- that is, a man who grows.'

Chrysanthemum, don't deceive yourself about the fullness of life
Nikon FE2, 50mm