Every curling thing

The roof is agleam with rain. Lustrous, vitreous, liquid. The lilacs are already leaning close to the grass with the weight. The succulents are baccate and bursting. The tulips’ silky petals have fallen off and litter the ground, leaving the stamens bare, the pollen squandered.

The bamboo are thirsty. They drink, drink, drink. They shudder in the slight wind and plan the takeover of another inch of land.

The soft fiddleheads of the fern uncurl in the dampness. The Solomon’s Seal gets greener every day. The herbs have woken up-oregano, lemon thyme, rosemary-others whose names elude me. The mint already threatens to crowd out its less robust neighbors, spilling over the edge of the herb garden onto the hazel shell path. The lemon balm is bride’s bouquet feathery, lucid juice. The violets drop their last shy offerings.

Tiny sweet peas are reaching, wrapping their sinuous embrace around the small twig fence, calling each other to bloom and bless. Every curved and curling thing belongs here, reaching up, wanting the blue sky of summer.

The honeysuckle is out of hand, creeping across the rafters, threatening to grow up through the crack in the roof and down to Pearl’s yard. The nervous wisteria is grasping, twisting, clinging-as always, unsure. The purple clematis has had its way with the trellis and is reaching over, unsatisfied, to entwine the rose, who leans now over the lettuce to protect her from the elements. They love the rain. They love each other, mannerless but well meaning youth.

The chard and potato vines are small, still. Waiting. Waiting for a more certain invitation from the sun. Soon. Can they feel it?

The sun shines through all this green and it speaks of summer coming-of thick clumps of orange, yellow and pink-edged Hemerocallis, the elegant tetraploid daylilies whose slender stalks will bend under the weight of the fully bloomed flowers. Of strawberries. Mouths full of evergreen strawberries. And blueberries for the tiny fingers of greedy children who climb the fence and visit. Of blood-red roses so big and so peppery they make me lazy. Of the shy climbing rose that hides herself along the edge of the garage, dropping a lithe branch to tease. Of the stately elephant grass that will be the last stubborn thing to linger after the fall freeze.

Tiny grape hyacinth, marigolds dutifully fencing out sluggish intruders, peasant-bright geraniums bravely leafing and blooming. These are only the ones whose names I know. There are more, and all live under a stately maple tree that threatens to drop an ancient, mossy branch on the garage.

I don’t have this garden. It has me. It will have me in summer, late at night, under strings of colored lights, leaning over the teak table, tea in the chipped cup, reading the last post on your blog, wondering, as I do, always, what grows under your feet and out your window.

Copyright Lekshe. Used by permission.

By Lekshe

Lekshe is a poet and "a nomad at heart, most at home in the mountains, willingly tethered to the city for the present." I think she gave up blogging for silence. But you can see her old posts at Walking with Celebi.