HeronDragonWrites: This Is The TIme Of Year

Lord of the Garden; Jake Letourneau photo

This is the time of year.

This is the time of year when the garden is mysterious, too full to see into, too lush to see out of, if you can even find a pathway to the inside.

This is the time of year when the greens are more than green, and the garden hums a low, buzzing song, under its breath, deep in itself, to itself. This is the time of year when the eye catches and sinks in; this is the time of year when dreams are filled with sun, and the smell of damp earth, and flashes of poppy orange, balm magenta, bean scarlet, foxglove cream, delphinium purple, rose yellow, dianthus pink and salmon.

Busy Bees; Deb Marshall photo

This is the time of year when a garden snake flows by, deep in the verdure – just a swish, just a brush of air in passing. This is the time of year when a mouse rustles below the green, hustling from her nest under the overturned, chipped birdbath bowl that looks like a blue pool nestled amongst the green green green. This is the time of year when a burnt-orange salamander scuttles off into the tomatoes when a rock is lifted from its cool, damp spot under the green leaves of the bright yellow calendula. This is the time of year when crickets hop and crickle, and birds pounce. This is the time of year when the chipmunk invasion feasts bulgingly on barely-ripe sunflower seeds, swinging on the hammock the heavy flower becomes.

This is the time of year.

Hummingbird Moth; Deb Marshall photo

This is the time of year when the tall weeds blossom and are beautiful. This is the time of year when the beans grow plump, the peas die back, the tomatoes gather and deep inside themselves, begin to ripen, their glossy green skins mellowing slowly to a yellow blush, on their way to final, deep, red. This is the time of year when the prickly cucumber climbs the tomato cage and heavy fruit hangs down, down. This is the time of year when the bees are too laden to fly and they stagger from flower to flower.

This is the time of year when the bricks in paths bake, and the water in birdbath sparkles.

Nasturtiums and peppers; Deb Marshall photo

This is the time of year when runner beans and morning glories reach up, and up, and twist about any rising thing: sunflower stem, bamboo pyramid, fence, netting, tomato cage; and when they reach the highest peak, stretch and reach and fly straight up in the air, reaching for the sun, reaching for the sun.

This is the time of year when Buzzy Boy flies endlessly between sugar-water feeders and runner bean blossoms, stopping to sing his frustration at invading hummers. This is the time of year when beets swell out of the ground, and onions, already swollen, topple over. This is the time of year. This is the time of year.

I cut back the marjoram and sage, and days later, it needs cutting again. I apologize to the bees, and trim the flowering tops off Catman’s many catnip patches. I look at a lovely, thriving plant and think, “I wonder what that lush and lovely plant is, that I planted, or is it a weed?” I count the sunflower blossoms and lose count. I look lovingly on the three little kaffir limes on their potted tree; I breathe a prayer to the holy basil in its pot to grow taller and fuller. I wonder how, in the limited time available, I’ll ever preserve all this richness.

Pure sunlight, to burst out of freezer in winter. The cellar filled with bee hum in January. The cheerful dried flowers changing the mid-winter corner. Capture the garden, capture the garden. Capture the garden while we can.

This is the time of year.

This is the time of year.

This is the time of year.