hidden in the lady's house

whoosh. here's june.

my woodsy maine garden really begins to heat up in late spring. unfortunately, after many thunderstorms and torrential rain and kisses from the sun, the weeds are quickly outpacing me. i try to keep up—things look okay—just too bad the weeds will always be several steps ahead. it's a jungle out there, but—if you'll permit me to say so—it's a nice jungle.

bees, bats, butterflies, dragonflies and hummingbirds make the rounds. there's a welcome crowd—a busy, boisterous, hard-at-work crowd—amongst the shoots and blooms, swooping in and out and about the plantings, the buds, the leaves.

crazy overabundance, spilling over. that's what it is; that's what's visible.

but then there's the invisible.

those secret places. the inner sanctums. the private abodes. when male and female are together inside the soft, delicate folds of the petals. look closely—it's a steamy, x-rated place. love, green-style. seeds, birth, new generations.

take the azalea. look at her. what you see is no blushing bride, no shy innocent stigma. she is fiery and brazen, that one, and throws herself wantonly toward the sky to receive his pollen. what a delight.

below her stigma—near her middle, around the style—a ring of courtiers surrounds her (many male and female parts all in close proximity to one another—i would guess it's a good life for everyone playing inside this flower) each one a dusty anther where pollen is produced—the man's house, androecium.

a hidden place, unseen, lies below that. the gynoecium—the lady's house—with the ovaries, the eggs.

i don't need to tell you the details of what happens next, once the pollen grains travel down the style. they'll do their thing and not a single person will take notice. not a single one. it will simply be done.

and that's just one flower. how are your math skills? count, then multiply.

what can i say? i'm a hopeless romantic—there's no stopping love.

speaking of no stopping love—but in this case a bluesy kind of love mixed with some real rockin' love, too—last night ed, hannah, christina and i saw marc cohn and bonnie raitt in portland. she, like the name of her song, is something to talk about. man, can that lady perform. at 63 she's lookin' good and she's still got it in her—such a talented guitarist and singer. she and her band put on a fantastic and long—hand over mouth covering yawns this morning—show.