I wrote this out over the weekend. When it was actually sunny, and not drizzly. NOT that I don't like the drizzle! Drizzle has its place in my pantheon of happy weather. But still... it was so wonderfully sunny...
It is incredibly lovely out right now. I'm sitting in my backyard, which is strewn with the detrius of a profoundly fun night and which smells of woodsmoke and sun warmed root beer. The cress in my garden has gone to seed, and it's lovely. Giant, meaty green stalks topped with a fuzz of delicate yellow flowers that are sending the bees into a sensual tizzy. The willow is in a state of dishabille, just barely clothed with green, hints of her bark showing here and there when the wind blows just right. And I'm surrounded by the smell of new green things. My herb bed is starting to look lush, with everything scrambling to keep up with the mints. The fennel is asserting its majesty, growing taller than anything around it, and the chamomile is spreading, gentle and bushy and low. The caroway is a new addition to the bed, and hasn't quite established itself in the hierachy yet. The thyme and oregano mutter to each other in a language comprised of sharp scents, and the pennyroyal and marjoram ignore them loftily. The anise hyssop broods on the meaning of life in its special little pot, scenting the air around it with thoughts of green life and brown death. The spikey green plant that doesn't belong in my herb bed but which I find myself reluctant to remove has sprouted pretty little purple bells. And the tomatoes marshall their resources for a soon to be implemented hostile takeover, sullen in their corner of the lowly vegetable bed.
And over it all the sun spreads itself like treacle, warm and thick and yellow. I love the transition from white light to yellow light that happens this time of year. Yellow, fuzzy, warm light that sturs up the motes and carries them suspended, sparkling.
I should be spreading compost right now, planting the seedlings I bought, pruning back the over-eager, tending the reluctant, turning the earth, and weeding out the unwanted.
Instead I think I'm going to get out the hose and play with the water. There are few things in this world as diverting as watching droplets of water coalesce high above your head and fall to the ground, shiny and distracting, with the ever present danger of shifting just a bit to fall on your head.
It is incredibly lovely out right now. I'm sitting in my backyard, which is strewn with the detrius of a profoundly fun night and which smells of woodsmoke and sun warmed root beer. The cress in my garden has gone to seed, and it's lovely. Giant, meaty green stalks topped with a fuzz of delicate yellow flowers that are sending the bees into a sensual tizzy. The willow is in a state of dishabille, just barely clothed with green, hints of her bark showing here and there when the wind blows just right. And I'm surrounded by the smell of new green things. My herb bed is starting to look lush, with everything scrambling to keep up with the mints. The fennel is asserting its majesty, growing taller than anything around it, and the chamomile is spreading, gentle and bushy and low. The caroway is a new addition to the bed, and hasn't quite established itself in the hierachy yet. The thyme and oregano mutter to each other in a language comprised of sharp scents, and the pennyroyal and marjoram ignore them loftily. The anise hyssop broods on the meaning of life in its special little pot, scenting the air around it with thoughts of green life and brown death. The spikey green plant that doesn't belong in my herb bed but which I find myself reluctant to remove has sprouted pretty little purple bells. And the tomatoes marshall their resources for a soon to be implemented hostile takeover, sullen in their corner of the lowly vegetable bed.
And over it all the sun spreads itself like treacle, warm and thick and yellow. I love the transition from white light to yellow light that happens this time of year. Yellow, fuzzy, warm light that sturs up the motes and carries them suspended, sparkling.
I should be spreading compost right now, planting the seedlings I bought, pruning back the over-eager, tending the reluctant, turning the earth, and weeding out the unwanted.
Instead I think I'm going to get out the hose and play with the water. There are few things in this world as diverting as watching droplets of water coalesce high above your head and fall to the ground, shiny and distracting, with the ever present danger of shifting just a bit to fall on your head.
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