What Remains of a Sunny Day
I never get any exercise in the woods. Every six seconds, I have to stop and examine something. Six deer, one terrapin, an abundance of blooming cutleaf toothwort. I ask you, who could rush through that? Especially when every uphill stretch wants to put me in the ground.
The old flower garden is blooming among a wreck of wild raspberry and a crushing pile of the remains of an ancient, hackberry tree. Even if I had the energy, it would take me a year to clear it. Still, I enjoy the tiny rue anemone, almost blooming, and thank the lover of flowers who planted it here. It lived long after her. Just like her formal hyacinths, blooming near the wild ones. Strongly scented, white, pink and purple.
Will I leave anything to last beyond me?
In a shady, rich corner of the old garden, which mimics the woods, the purple trout lily I planted have multiple blooms now. My trillium is up, and nearby her fritillaria, which I missed last week, is a foot tall.
I surveyed our daffodils too. Eight varieties blooming now, most I cannot name. Her tulips gone and my Montessori looking crowded and unhappy. The new daffodils from my grandmother's garden are still puny. And, in my new garden, all clay and rock, the bright, white crocus I planted make that place a little less painful and lonely. Gradually, I hope to cover it with white crocus. Followed by daffodils, peonies and summer lilies. Not enough there this first spring, but a start.
There will come a day when these places will matter to no one, but maybe something will still bloom there after I'm gone. Daffodils that someone will love but cannot name. White crocus spreading down a rocky hillside.
The old flower garden is blooming among a wreck of wild raspberry and a crushing pile of the remains of an ancient, hackberry tree. Even if I had the energy, it would take me a year to clear it. Still, I enjoy the tiny rue anemone, almost blooming, and thank the lover of flowers who planted it here. It lived long after her. Just like her formal hyacinths, blooming near the wild ones. Strongly scented, white, pink and purple.
Will I leave anything to last beyond me?
In a shady, rich corner of the old garden, which mimics the woods, the purple trout lily I planted have multiple blooms now. My trillium is up, and nearby her fritillaria, which I missed last week, is a foot tall.
I surveyed our daffodils too. Eight varieties blooming now, most I cannot name. Her tulips gone and my Montessori looking crowded and unhappy. The new daffodils from my grandmother's garden are still puny. And, in my new garden, all clay and rock, the bright, white crocus I planted make that place a little less painful and lonely. Gradually, I hope to cover it with white crocus. Followed by daffodils, peonies and summer lilies. Not enough there this first spring, but a start.
There will come a day when these places will matter to no one, but maybe something will still bloom there after I'm gone. Daffodils that someone will love but cannot name. White crocus spreading down a rocky hillside.