Monday, March 24, 2014

when summer comes

when summer comes I'm going to have flowers, vegies, and berries everywhere. The backyard will be a kaleidoscope of color, texture, perspective, and aroma. Right now the soil is buried beneath 3 feet of snow and ice. 

There will be green. Spring will come, mud and ice and robins. Summer will come.

When summer comes I'll be outside all day. 

Right now my house is tidy. Orchids are blooming. The dishes are clean and put away, laundry too. Bed-sheets are clean, bathroom too. The futon maintains an erect posture, no slouching: ready for visitors. All vacuumed, dusted, scoured, and polished. Small but tidy. Perfectly controlled temperature and humidity. 

When summer comes my house will be disordered and dusty. 

When summer comes my gardens will be glorious with color, texture, and light. There will be orderly rows. Morning glories will twine and bloom up the fence. The cedars will burst with green. Raspberries will be an uncontainable jungle of juicy red petit bouches. There will be kale, carrots, and green beans. 

Inside my house it will be hot and humid. There will be dust bunnies in the corners. Stuff will pile up: mail, notes to self, grocery lists, and intended gifts. Laundry baskets will overflow. Dirty dishes too. Houseplants will wilt. I'll finally notice, but mostly I'll be outside. I'll be weeding, watering, and wandering. I'll replant, rearrange, and rest. I'll be at the beach, holding my grandson, and exploring. Well, also teaching full-time. But just full-time, no extras. Well, just a few extras. 

When summer comes I'll be a grandmother and a gardener. 

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