To be there before the storm
And the turning of the light hours
When the lake becomes memory soup
That harks to The Beginning.
The swallows swoop like starfighters
Over roses succumbed to scents, colors, petals loosening
And ants delirious with the sweetness
As the sea hawk eyes the birch swaying in the first wind.
Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way.