I lasted a week.

I doubt the onions will bulb, but they’ll green.

I doubt the Spinach will cover, but it’ll sprout.

I doubt the radish will reach giant sizes, but they’ll lend pops of pink to the world for a short bright while.

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Uprooting

In a short few weeks we’ll have moved. Back to where we came. Three miles west.

To ready the house, to sell the house, to greener pastures in the form of better schools and shorter commutes.

I may not have a garden this spring. Or I may be keeping this one up for months, housing market dependent.

But I’ll bring some along for the ride, like this 4 year old chiogga beet.

While others will be gone before the house changes hands.

Any tips on moving asparagus crowns into containers for a few months?

A July morning jungle

The lines were drawn and the advancing vines paid no heed.

Sweet potatoes marching on pumpkin. Watermelon winding through to climb abandoned tomato cages.

A butterfly weed returned to hearty trumpets.

The okra is starting to synchronise. We may soon see more than one per plant per harvest.

And a zinnia has shouldered its way through the green beans to feel the sun on its head.

Sun in the sun.

I’ve missed time outside. Missed may be too gentle of a word. Craved? Yearned? Viscerally required..

With the more potent creatures of energy in this house discovering, pounding upon, and vocally barraging any boundary set before them… bedtime has fallen.

And with it, any hope at a regular visit to the garden in the evenings. Even with the garden a mere fifteen feet from the back door, it may seem miles these days.

Such that a large Black Prince splits one day and mildews in its splits the next.

I have my seeds for the next solstice now at least.

The okra is coming in slowly. Curious. Not enough at once for even a side dish. Perhaps the ten or so plants will gain momentum and I’ll rue this day soon enough.

A melon has appeared in the green beans. Did I plant that? This year? Or was it last?

The zinnias are, finally, holding true to promises of summer blooms. I hope the fun pops of pink and orange will continue as the heat climbs higher. The nasturtiums are hanging on, the troopers.

The corn lost the battle with gravity after the second flattening. The storm two weeks back took out the corn, half the tomatoes, and both windshields on my car (via tree.)

I should really remove it but have to move the beautifully composted compost out of the cooked pile first and… time in the garden is left wanting.

So happy solstice, y’all. From one still sunlit corner of the world, brightened ever more my a smaller sun mimic, to yours. May the ride down the backside of this year’s coaster be joyful, healthful, and grateful.

Kumquat

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.