Dear Friday #1
Dear Friday,
The lilacs were here. I saw them. I anticipated their arrival, checking daily for purple buds to appear and lighten. I called the girls over from their play and said, it won't be long. I gently shoved their heads into the bunches, so they could know that faint, almost-here aroma and lock it away for safe keeping.
And on the night right before that first sweetness, I left their window open, hoping that the aroma would waft into their dreams. I stashed them in bottles on window sills and every sink corner.
And now, they are gone, surrendering to the heat of a spring that has forgotten to remain cool.
A squirrel perches on the fence. A dark-bellied robin pecks near the rose bush, in the soft earth. The morning dew is nowhere to be found, a storm is near.
The lilac bush is green once more.
Alongside our house, the work of a former resident remains. I'd like to thank him, but as our mailbox would tell you, there is no forwarding address. Tucked in the back corner, near the fence, these fiery orange poppies grow. Not an angry sort of fiery, but an Anne Shirley kind of orange that says, isn't it just glorious to be alive. The blossoms hang from the droopiest, fuzziest stems I have ever seen, a marvel of engineering and comedy, indeed. The petals ruffle and cascade like tissue paper in the wind at the slightest touch.
They do not keep. They exist for a minute in time, precisely their own and have no interest in joining a bouquet, they would rather be confetti.
Goodbye lilacs, hello poppies. I see you.
These fantastically whimsical irises peak out around the front corner of our grey house. They are mysterious and yellow and bearded. The first year, I almost missed them all. My husband was working in the yard, came in for scissors and returned with all sorts of beauty. Now, they are on my watch list. I must be vigilant, for they are already withering in reverence to the sky.
Between the poppies and the irises, a large peony bush awakes every May. The buds are just turning the slightest pink and the ants have set to work unlocking each perfect layer. I could do without the ants, but the peonies cannot. The first petal has been unwrapped. It won't be long.
Yesterday, from the trampoline, my daughter exclaimed, "Mom, the leaves are back!" As if she was sure winter had snuffed out any promise of spring. Like a stubborn old man, those black walnuts trees have always kept us guessing. Just when we are sure that our trees will stand alone, spiny and bare in a world of green, we look up and see that we are under the canopy too.
Two chickadees talk morning news.
Two squirrels race about in play.
I sit with the lilac bush and wait with all the living things, listening for that tiny moment, one glorious moment in the song.
Thunder rolls across the sky. Oh, I love this part.
The lilacs were here. I saw them. I anticipated their arrival, checking daily for purple buds to appear and lighten. I called the girls over from their play and said, it won't be long. I gently shoved their heads into the bunches, so they could know that faint, almost-here aroma and lock it away for safe keeping.
And on the night right before that first sweetness, I left their window open, hoping that the aroma would waft into their dreams. I stashed them in bottles on window sills and every sink corner.
And now, they are gone, surrendering to the heat of a spring that has forgotten to remain cool.
A squirrel perches on the fence. A dark-bellied robin pecks near the rose bush, in the soft earth. The morning dew is nowhere to be found, a storm is near.
The lilac bush is green once more.
Alongside our house, the work of a former resident remains. I'd like to thank him, but as our mailbox would tell you, there is no forwarding address. Tucked in the back corner, near the fence, these fiery orange poppies grow. Not an angry sort of fiery, but an Anne Shirley kind of orange that says, isn't it just glorious to be alive. The blossoms hang from the droopiest, fuzziest stems I have ever seen, a marvel of engineering and comedy, indeed. The petals ruffle and cascade like tissue paper in the wind at the slightest touch.
They do not keep. They exist for a minute in time, precisely their own and have no interest in joining a bouquet, they would rather be confetti.
Goodbye lilacs, hello poppies. I see you.
These fantastically whimsical irises peak out around the front corner of our grey house. They are mysterious and yellow and bearded. The first year, I almost missed them all. My husband was working in the yard, came in for scissors and returned with all sorts of beauty. Now, they are on my watch list. I must be vigilant, for they are already withering in reverence to the sky.
Between the poppies and the irises, a large peony bush awakes every May. The buds are just turning the slightest pink and the ants have set to work unlocking each perfect layer. I could do without the ants, but the peonies cannot. The first petal has been unwrapped. It won't be long.
Yesterday, from the trampoline, my daughter exclaimed, "Mom, the leaves are back!" As if she was sure winter had snuffed out any promise of spring. Like a stubborn old man, those black walnuts trees have always kept us guessing. Just when we are sure that our trees will stand alone, spiny and bare in a world of green, we look up and see that we are under the canopy too.
Two chickadees talk morning news.
Two squirrels race about in play.
I sit with the lilac bush and wait with all the living things, listening for that tiny moment, one glorious moment in the song.
Thunder rolls across the sky. Oh, I love this part.
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