Five years hence, I felt a swell of joy. Anticipation. Amplification.
Five weeks in, cessation.
Five weeks more, awareness.
Five weeks further, separation.
I gathered seeds that weekend, to memorialize.
I’ve sown them each memorial weekend since.
They, as their motive, didn’t take.
Until now.
I still, mostly, don’t say.
I still, mostly, can’t stand.
So I still, mostly, let sway.
I think I’ve sown sunflower seeds seven different times over the past nine years. Only one of those was the first, but the seventh was another first – the first successful year.
And here we are.
Happy day to all of the mamas. The mamas of biology and the mamas of love. The mamas of circumstance and the mamas of the moment.
Let them call you a weed. You are none such as that. They may not see your beauty, your strength, your ingenuity. I do, little purple flower. I see it. I see you. Bloom your heart out how and where you bloom best. Never you mind that gardener.
The sweet corn has a tassel. The mystery tomatoes are not cherries. The yellow crook neck have tiny squash. The strawberries are in full fierce little force. There green beans are gearing up for a long season. The carrots won’t quit and the okra is gaining height. The melon has vines and the peppers have flowers. It’s been a long and lovely spring. Summer is starting.
We’ll see if weighing becomes a habit (doubtful) but here are 14 delicious ounces of mostly calima beans.
Sometimes we’re caught off guard and knocked flat.
Sometimes a storm is just what you need.
Sometimes you aren’t prepared for unprecedented growth.
Sometimes you are.
And sometimes, no matter how hard you fight it, passions persist.
And the carrots and peas just won’t quit. The sugar snap peas haven’t made it in the house before this week. (Don’t tell the little ones or they’ll disappear before I get a taste.)
With these from feet away and peas in the salad picked moments before, our meal is made.
The beans will be ready for a first pick tomorrow or the next day. The peas will have their last harvest the next day or tomorrow. The tides turn with their speed. The earth spins with hers. The garden moves at its own pace. I’m merely here to watch it turn.
plumdirt 