We climbed in the hammock
awash in flies
not she, nor I.
She squimpered. I grusked.
She’d spent the whole day frumping,
I figured she must
have found the next thing
that pissed off her fancy.
I softened then when
I saw what she’d spied
a puddle of gnats
who’d yet to have flied
or perhaps had alit
to our colorful place
to create such a fit
from supposed sugar and lace.
Gardeners chatting yesterday more than most days. A yellow mask. A blue. A cherry blossom and Robin covered one. Kombucha. Peppers. Birds and onions.
“Now, about sourdough starters…” she said.
“Would you like some?” I offered.
She pointed to her plot, we coordinated a time (ish.) I fed my starter and put hers into a washed old peanut butter jar.
The dew this morning is so thick it reaches to the sky. I hope she finds the jar with the note still dry enough to read.
She painted it metallic pinks and purples. Covered it in foam sticker butterflies and hearts. We hung it on the fence and waited.
The rains came and the heat, too, and the paint started to peel. A sticker and then two and twenty washed away.
A few butterflies remain and today, she squealed a whispered jump for joy in my ear.
“They found it! Look, mama!”
Howdy, new neighbor. Make yourself at home.
I don’t want the words to come. So the pictures. And the walks. The sand and the catch. The bikes, swings, fire pits and pushes. The seeds and the earth. Less coffee and deeper breaths.
The youngest picked a packet at the shop last we went. A mix of wild promises of blossom and burst.
This variety has sprouted in a few spots we sprinkled. Each pair of leaves with a match pair of nibbles. Such consistency that I first thought it a pattern of growth… but it’s instead a habitual snacker.
It’ll be a lovely wait and good surprise to see what these grow into, if they make it to maturity.
This is the smallest nasturtium I’ve had try to bloom.
“It’s chilly out, Mama, did you know Chile is a country?”