balm

hard to believe, but by the time early september arrives in coastal maine an evening fire in the fireplace or fire pit not only looks good, but also feels good. the nippiness of some down east end-of-summer evenings points out the fact that burning logs is not always just for the fun of it—for the loveliness of the crackling flames' red and orange displays—but for the practical matter of warmth, even in september, even if you have on socks and fleece.

i always feel a little—just a little—wistful as summer winds down, but i don't miss the high humidity and i do love fall. until recently i hadn't had socks on for months. a pair of flip-flops slipped between my toes and beneath my soles were the preferred, the most enjoyable, companions to my feet; but i say hooray to the possibility of an indian summer and then the crisp days ahead.

our summer visitors have long since packed their bags and suitcases and headed home to go back to their lives and their autumn routines. leaves are already starting to turn and, in many spots, dried and crinkled yellowish and brownish ones litter the lawn. boats will soon be hauled out of the water—sooner rather than later if a hurricane barrels up the eastern seaboard and gets uncomfortably close—and they'll be shrink-wrapped or stored in boathouses; the big yellow school buses rumble down the roads.

at its peak, this summer's monarda was a stunner—it grew to 60 inches—as were many other of the garden's blooms. somehow, though, the deep red naturalizing effect of the bee balm made it my favorite. not only the color, but the minty, spicy, oregano-ish scent was glorious—the bees and hummingbirds thought so, too.  i loved it when the scarlet flowers were filled with hordes of fuzzy noisy bees. it was like the balm had moving body parts and was chanting and swaying and stretching its limbs. but it was the bees doing all the work—little puppet masters buzzing from blossom to blossom— forcing the bee balm to perform in jerky motions as if it might just reach out and offer you a green hand.

what i was not thrilled about were the caterpillars that sneakily blended in with the leaves early in the season. they had me downright miffed because i thought the plant might be in trouble from the start. then came the beetles and tiny white worms—or some kind of larvae?—many of which i dispatched with a quick, efficient pinch. (i did a lot of hand washing this summer, that's for sure.) even with all the crawly critters, the plant did fine—more than fine, it was spectacular.

but the bees are now gone from the balm, and the stems stand as if frozen—a vision of things to come—topped with black, dried-out seed pods and crimson bits—the leftovers of summer. no more fiery display, no more razzle-dazzle. the buzzing has moved into the seven shades of phlox, where the bees and hummingbirds are finishing off the last sweet taste of summer before it finally comes to an end.

the lovely warts

the day started out like any other day—phone calls, emails, dirty dishes, weedy flower beds, a dog patiently waiting to be fed—but then it turned, veered in a different direction, and left me face to face with the biggest, grandaddy-est eastern american toad i have ever seen. his (?) body length alone—i measured—was nearly four inches and—oh my—did he have fantastic bumps and warts. i was curious as to which bumps were warts and which bumps were, well, just bumps. his skin was dry and densely patterned with them, sprinkled with wonderful camouflage—an assortment of raised, large, small, brown, white, and black dots. to my mind he was indeed a splendid piece of living art. (after a quickie consultation with google i still do not have a definitive answer about how one identifies a genuine wart from that imposter, the generic bump.)

crouched low against the foundation in corner of the deck beside a planter (a large circle cut out of the decking into which a three foot deep concrete cylinder was inserted, ending up a few inches below the level of the deck and filled with soil, compost and flowers) this cute toad sat motionless, even with me leaning down and thrusting a camera in his face. 

i confess i have left the planter somewhat overgrown but, as it turns out, this neglect was a good thing because it probably provided a nice habitat for him—and who knows who else—and since i rarely remove the dead leaves and stalks from the container, but merely cut them up and leave them to rot into mulch, he may have hidden out in there for years.  

in this warm, dry, sheltered spot, the toad sat absolutely still. he blended in well with the patch of chipping paint between the edge of the planter and the house, but he wasn't moving at all. i wondered, was the chubby guy okay? suddenly i experienced a slight panic as i tried to recall where and when the exterminator had sprayed the foundation to get rid of carpenter ants. i don't normally use chemicals anywhere and it makes me cringe when an ant infestation necessitates the use of pesticides. i held my breath as i stroked him gently on his side with my finger. he blinked and turned his head. i withdrew my finger and exhaled—phew, thankfully he was alive and well.

judging by his size, the toad was old—old for a toad anyway—and to have reached such a grand old age i guessed that, in addition to requiring a place to call home, he must also eat rather well. i picked him up and held him on the palm of my hand. i stared into his golden and black jewel-like eyes for a moment and then gently placed him back on the deck. a tasty supply of mouth-watering spiders, moths, centipedes, flies, worms, and slugs reside in and around the planter, allowing the residents of the area to become fat and content.

i studied the patch of skin where the toad had sat on the palm of my hand. did it feel itchy or tingly or irritated? did i notice anything odd? no—there was no evidence of warts or bumps or anything sprouting on my palm. what is it about toads and warts? why the loathing, the fear? i don't pretend to understand a toad's skin, the purpose of it, and yet there must be a purpose, a reason, besides the obvious one, for it to have developed the way it has. i don't find a toad's flesh at all revolting—in fact, i like it. ah, but there is humor at work here, humor, as well as practicality, built into those bumps, into the very workings of the cosmos, is there not?

why are some people utterly freaked out by warts on toads, convinced there is a connection between a toad's lovely warts and the icky kind people get? toads do occasionally secrete a mild toxin which may cause minor skin irritation—but never warts—in some people, and of course we know getting warts from toads and frogs is an old wives tale. and yet, toads, and toad warts, still remain unpleasant for a lot of people to look at. we view them as disgusting; they make us uncomfortable.

there it is: humans are frequently made upset, uncomfortable and uneasy by what is harmless, inconsequential, and unimportant to this existence.

i imagined that beautiful old toad sizing me up, getting a good look at me while i was getting a good look at him. would he be critical of me—turn his head away in disgust—if i had a piece of spinach lodged between my teeth, or if he saw a fleck of mascara smeared under my eye, or discerned a small, hardly noticeable, pimple on my forehead?

an apology to vespula vulgaris

people have their own methods for handling stress—methods that perhaps aren't so much methods as they are involuntary brain responses, the old autonomic nervous system kicking in and doing its job—for determining whether a situation calls for an actual, all-out state of emergency, meaning panic mode has been activated, or not, and figuring out how they will deal with it. it may not be a newsworthy type of emergency, or one that requires lengthy telephone consultations or a trip to the doctor, or the kind that necessitates pressing 911, but it could be an emergency that is little, so little, in fact, that it escapes the notice of most people, but certainly not those for whom it requires immediate attention.

"oh my god, please hurry up! it's huge!" she yells from upstairs.

i don't know exactly when i became the go-to person for this particular kind of little emergency—it was certainly a long time ago—but i know that since i became that person i have had the joy of experiencing many intimate eye to eye and nose to nose moments with several species of buzzing and scampering bugs. i don't bother asking myself why me? because i already know why me.

oftentimes i am the only person—and that's including when there are males of our species on the scene—who will not flinch and just get on with the dirty business. whether it's in my own home, or the home of someone else, if there's a scuttling spider or a flying thing with a stinger coming out of its rear end (or, more accurately, its abdomen) i'm the one who is called upon to remove the intruder.

flying insects, spiders, beetles, centipedes, worms, slugs, ants, and other creepy crawlies don't bother me—they never have. (but i don't like lyme-disease-carrying deer ticks, and i especially don't like nasty black earwigs, with their scary looking curved pincers, that you sometimes see in drains or cellars; you know, those bugs that crawl in you ear, bore through your brain and lay a pile of eggs in there.*)

when the need arises—when errant bugs stray into the house—i am viewed as a kind of insect executioner, although, if i can avoid it, i generally don't execute bugs—i don't believe in execution—i merely relocate the offender.

the time has come. i am being summoned.

"it's in there," she says with a shaky voice, pointing an unsteady finger at the closed bathroom door. (this time it's hannah with insect issues, but it could just as easily have been alex or christina, or my mother-in-law, who is deathly afraid of spiders because she has always maintained she is severely—that's severely—allergic to their venom. i dare anyone to try telling her there are no venomous spiders anywhere near here.)

i am prepared. i have armed myself with a jar and a good, solid, just-in-case paperback.

then it's over. afterwards, i feel a little sad.

i was impatient. i was frustrated. i acted too quickly. i couldn't scoop vespula into the jar, and my attempts to capture the wasp were making it nervous, thus making me nervous (i don't mind bugs, but, like everyone else, i don't look forward to being stung.) i should have removed the screen where the wasp was focusing on its struggle, zigging and zagging and aiming for the light, only trying to get free, only trying to live. (wasps are, after all, beneficial to the environment, and are a welcome predator because they prey upon so many insect pest populations.) i should simply have let it out into the garden.

it's too late for should have, though, because i didn't.

*according to hollywood and nobody else

snip, snip, gather them in

last week.....

the first day of summer. ninety degrees and steamy at eleven o'clock in the morning. not a typical maine day, no, not at all. joe cupo on channel 6 predicts three more days of this. i stand in the garden, glance around, shake my head. in addition to the heat, there's something else that's not quite right, something else that's off.

silence. dead silence. not a chirp, not a song, no buzzing of bees or dragonflies or the low hum of an incoming hummingbird over my head, no wind, only the faint burble of the little stream as it meekly shushes and tumbles, seeking its way through the forest.

i stare at them. they are starting to appear defeated, heads drooping low. i know if i don't take some action many of the splendid buds won't bloom properly, and those that do won't last. they will be seared and cooked right on their own stems until they're well done and finished. i mutter to myself this isn't good, not good at all.

it's too much for them. (it's too much for me. i don't know how i would deal with the heat if i lived in the south. james and megan won't see me visiting them in texas in the summer, that's for sure.) they will wilt, wither, waste away, if left alone to fend for themselves against the heat wave that's overpowering everything, myself included. but there's one thing i can do to save them—get the scissors and start cutting.

we don't get a lot of oppressive days like this along the southern maine coast—maybe 3 or 4 of them a year—and by oppressive i mean where there is no reprieve from the heat, no afternoon sea breeze, the humidity staying high and the temperature barely dipping and there's nothing to help air out the house and cool it down in preparation for yet another day of heat. we used to tough it out when there wasn't a breeze—we didn't even have an air conditioner in the bedroom until two years ago—but we've become wimpy. no, not we, me. i'm the wimpy one; ed doesn't mind the heat.

i grab an old pair of slightly rusty scissors i use for the garden out of a terra cotta pot on the porch where i also keep the garden trowels and some string. snip, snip, gather them in before they fall to ruin. i whisper to them, to myself, in reassuring tones, fill the basket, carry them into the cool house and put them in fresh water away from the sun. i have closed the shades and curtains—it is as cool and dark as a crypt. i don't like it; i would much rather be able to leave the shades open and live in the light.

the silky, multi-layered white flowers, with bits of deep pink hidden like little surprises inside their frilly ruffles, are my favorites. they smell particularly sweet—they make the whole room smell sweet. i don't remember its name, but that plant is my most prolific. i am having some trouble with the raspberry/fuchsia/magenta/rose ones—what color are they exactly? i get confused, almost color-blinded by all the names—way too many shades of pink—which are bush-like and exhibit fine green leaves but not many blooms. do they need more manure? more mulch? more love?

the name—peony. i like saying it even if it's just in my head.

what do meteorologists know. the next day a cold front from the north lands on our doorstep and brings with it some clouds and a breeze, and much lower humidity and temperatures. comfortable. shades up, windows open. (we are, as they say, on the leading edge of the front. just 25 miles south of here, and a few miles to the west, it's still sweltering.) my snipping was completely unnecessary; i could have left the peonies alone. but never mind—they keep me company indoors instead, where i see them both night and day.

this week.....

the inevitable falling of petals, the bottommost ones heart-shaped and crumpled and lying in a heap.

the scent of the night stalks

 along the caloosahatchee river. florida. january, 2012.

windows, thrown wide open to receive the warm, breezy, new air of daytime, need to be closed before bed. it is turning chilly, a real maine evening, one of those evenings where sitting in an adirondack chair around the campfire in the backyard—zipped in a sweatshirt, feet stretched toward the flames—is a good thing, but once you're inside, the night needs to be shut out.

as i reach for the handle to crank the window i pause. a sweet smell lingers on the nightair, a scent heady as incense—though more subtle—not a scent that can be described or identified as one particular plant.

forget-me-not. fiddlehead fern. chive. columbine. lily. euonymus. dandelion. azalea. peony. vinca. lilac. phlox. meadowsweet. grass. oregano. iris. hosta. countless weeds.

i stand motionless. i inhale. it is none of these—and yet it is all of these.

the aroma originates below, in the darkness of the underground world—not only in my yard, but everywhere—each place with its own particular scent, sometimes pronounced, sometimes not. the scent comes from the night work of plants. a pervading smell—a heavenly smell—of what, i cannot be sure, of what, i cannot say, but it strikes me that it is like a clear, rippling liquid, so i will call it a night juice: the juice that rises up.

i breathe it in. night essence.

it begins its move beneath the surface as the rainwater that washes over everything is gratefully accepted by earth and roots. the roots drink and it slowly starts the ascent, the vertical suck, streaming into stems and stalks after the roots have done their work, the lifting of the juice as it continues to make its way into the tips of quivering leaves and blades—long and narrow, round and full, small and compact, shiny and pointed, slivers, a multitude—and then out onto the air.

in the silent evening the earth stirs with that restless climb of fluid and nutrients—with life itself—and brings its perfume to my nostrils. i remove the screen (damn the mosquitoes, but then without them the bats and wrens and phoebes would not be satisfied) and stick my head out, hovering by the window a moment longer to drink in the sweet flow, this mighty night therapy, and its ability to calm and soothe after a long day.

i savor it—the heaviness, the dark rush, the pulsing up. the evening, alive.

i pop the screen back in place, lock the window tight. i climb into bed.

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.

crocus

i observe she is always the first to arrive
in this season of awakenings, this season
of erupting life—edgy, eloquent, forthright—
surrounded by her siblings
she stretches upward aiming for the sun

and i am struck by her couture
by that tiny body flashy with outrageous color
showing off a slim white form from which spring
long green sleeves and a smallish purplish hat
festooned with lavish orange embellishments
that make the statement here i am.

i can tell you the reason for her prompt appearance—
well before the steadfast daffodil
and the exuberant forget-me-not, never mind
the prim lilac—is simply the advantage
of her location—as they say, it's all about
location, location

location on a rich hump of sunny dirt. but don't
get worked up—that's not the whole story.
that's not what's making the dirt even better.
can you imagine, better than compost?
rather, it is this: her nether regions are securely
lodged, along with fistfuls of worms,

in the hottest spot in the town—no, that's a lie—
take away town and add yard—
in the soil directly on top
of the simmering sludge
within the slow-cooking
septic tank in the garden.

and if she could express her feelings
i think she would pose a riddle
in such a way that neither dictionaries
nor encyclopedias nor all human knowledge
could help solve it—

leaving the answer in something immediate
in something, i imagine, she, at least,
has intimated all along.

yellow

a lily sprinkled with a yellow confection, pollen grains like golden fairy dust—a delicious kind of perfection—shows off her bewitching, buttery throat. the garden is filled with colors and with birds, bugs, squirrels, toads and small harmless snakes. the summer flowers have peaked and are slowly fading back in anticipation of fall. we stare at the fog and hear rain is on the way. the days pass. we sit in expectation; we see what is happening. the lily folds herself up tightly, as if wrapping herself in her own hug, bows her soft head and gently lowers herself onto the earth's pungent bed.

dragonfly

shy lady skimmer
twelve black spots and delicate wings
paned intricate as cathedral windows
rests in a garden throbbing with lusty bees, beetles
hummingbirds queued up for a sniff lick taste
the market rich, filled to satisfy ravenous mouths ready
to devour a variety of sweet buds and succulent mosquitos.

you lift off circle 'round
forward-backward-sideways-up-down
you hover aware, your world topsy-turvy
startled by movement your fine wings
deliver you across the green spaces of your short life
abbreviated flights looking at an expanse of days and weeks
laugh out loud, fly dragon—question the wisdom men lay down—
all that years in the making but making no difference
in each tomorrow none of it matters does it?

no, none of this will matter in a month
in days you will be gone and your children
will carry on here in the land
where phlox and lilies bloom
where living things eat, mate, pass on their genes—
costly, rare, in demand—humanity will fight wars
devour each other over this freedom this gluttony
but we, you and i, will fly away
and hungrily grasp what really matters.
it was a remarkable life.

windowsills

~ dear jane, many of us, well, we women certainly, and also a generous helping of english professors and austen fanatics, have read your work. (many more have watched your books-turned-into-movies on a newfangled thing called television.) for a person who lived two hundred years ago you were remarkably ahead of your time. the brontes didn't have kind words for your prose, but henry james and many others did. and so do i. your house has changed; your garden is considerably smaller, your orchard is gone, but don't worry, the ladies have done a nice job—it's still quite a pleasant place. ~

jane austen wrote about what she saw in and around the villages where she lived; she wrote about life as she knew it, and even though nothing too dramatic happened in her imaginary world (except things like who was marrying who), that was the point, wasn't it—austen wrote with shrewdness and quiet satire about women's daily existence, a slice of the social order, her chapters filled with well-off young ladies, sometimes silly, sometimes not, who loved the latest fashions, learned to paint and play the pianoforte (if they were like jane, they would be encouraged to pursue their yearning for a richer education), filled the hours with social events and spent most of their time searching for a husband (beware of the perils lurking in that endeavor!). hmm, in some ways not unlike life today.

on the windowsills at chawton cottage vases of freshly cut flowers from the garden delight the eye, a simple homey touch which charms away the centuries and makes the cottage feel more like a lived-in home than a museum, as if jane were about to sit in her chair by the window overlooking the main thoroughfare and begin writing at her little table. (ha, her inkwell needs to be refilled first.)

a queen's walled garden

after a high speed ferry ride and then a jump over a small, puddle-like inlet of water on the unique chain ferry (if you don't take this little car ferry, which is actually, incredibly, pulled back and forth across the water by chains, you have to drive way around a river to get to east cowes on the other side), i ended up on the isle of wight with four hours to myself. i decided to visit osborne, which was once the private seaside retreat of queen victoria and prince albert.

i enjoyed strolling around the villa (until i ran into a large tour group), and the italianate terraces and lawns, but the real attraction for me was the walled garden.

i thought of the secret garden, one of my favorite childhood stories, when i stepped through a side door in the brick wall which surrounds the magical garden and came upon a welcoming, flower-filled retreat. it was peaceful and uncrowded (only a handful of people), unlike the queen's house, where i encountered too many people, and most annoyingly, a very large group of noisy german tourists.

inside the house two women in the tour group insisted on going in the wrong direction to view osborne, in the process running into people going in the right direction, which was supposed to be an orderly, circular, self-guided procession through the rooms. the guard politely and patiently—i was impressed—turned them around and told them not to go back the way they started, but to proceed on their tour the correct way.

sometimes i hate being a tourist.

the women argued loudly with the guard—they in heated german, he, coolly, in english, all rather comical—about this point for a moment, then shrugged and seemed to comply with his wishes. they were in front of me for a while as we flowed along, a current of bodies surging through rooms, but then, thankfully, the women disappeared into the crowd.

sometimes employees at tourist attractions must hate being employees at tourist attractions.

my elbow-to-elbow walk with other tourists around osborne house was interrupted a second time by the german tour group leader herself, an attractive woman in her early 40's with a loud professorial voice. i understand some german and this woman was obviously knowledgeable, but did she have to have such a booming, loudspeaker set of vocal chords? perhaps some of the german tourists had hearing problems.....

i had to pull away and separate myself from the noisy masses at this point. luckily, i was nearly finished looking at the rooms open to the public anyway, so i could make a dash for the door and get outside on the terraces and lawn, where i finally had space and could breathe properly again. i ended the day in the walled garden, content and thankful to be in the secret company of flowers.

worm city

the day lilies in our yard have become unruly. their behavior is out of control. technically, fall is the time to thin out the flower beds, but those lilies of mine are strong, stubborn and bossy; they like to jostle the other plants out of the way. i need to tackle their aggressive tendencies whenever i can in order for the other plants to have room to grow.

i was poking around with my shovel in a particularly crazy patch of lilies, trying bring some kind of order to the jumble out there. i dug out big clumps of spindle-shaped tubers with lots of roots attached. as i shook off the dirt and struggled to separate the dense root structure of the plants, i noticed a wonderful sight.

there were delightful worms wriggling around all over the place in the root ball. many, many worms. neighborhoods of worms living in my dirt.

i had discovered a genuine worm city. this made me very excited.

most people say yuck icky to worms and think they are disgusting. those people, of course, are entitled to their opinions. i, however, think worms are grand. they are not drop-dead cute, i guess, and maybe you wouldn't want to hug and kiss one like a puppy, but in the natural order of things they are most valuable.

earthworms aerate the soil with their burrowing. in addition, when they break down organic matter, like dead leaves, stalks, grasses, weeds, insects, seeds and roots, with their voracious chomping, soil nutrients are enhanced. and then there are the highly beneficial worm droppings. the activity of microorganisms is greatly increased due to the fact that those guys really love worm poop. quite simply, life in the dirt is good, it's a happy place, when worms are around.

all i can say is, a community of worms residing right outside my window makes me happy too, ok?

caution: intoxication and bee stings

dearest reader~

please meander on over here and take a walk with me in maine so i might offer you a glimpse of some of the pretties in the garden. in the (finally!) humid air the flower's perfume is strong, almost too strong—if that's possible—and even mildly intoxicating. i think i feel a little woozy. would you mind catching me if i fall over? that's awfully good of you. enjoy your day and don't forget to stick your nose in a blossom and smell the happiness......

oops, just don't stick your nose in one like that one up there.

fiddlehead green

in the yard i see magic. that's a fact. one night i went to bed. the next day i got out of bed. nothing special about that.

but when i looked out the window, there it was.

that almost indescribable shade of green which in maine appears suddenly, after rain and sun and warm air have had a chance to do their thing in the second week of may. we wait so long for a little peep of green, and then one morning there it is.

i am talking about fern green, fiddlehead green. not grass green or chive green. grass and chive green are lovely and all, but fern green, that achingly soft color of new life, is special. it only lasts while the spring growth is in its early stages and soon it, too, will change into darker, dustier shades. because the color is fleeting, it is sweet and rare. if you don't pay attention it will pop into the world and, as with the birth of all living things, quickly grow and be gone.

fern green is the shade of leafing out, like the birches, oaks and forsythia in the yard. i see some moss between the flagstones in the pathways that is light green, too. fern green is crisp celery green, an inside-freshly-cut-avocado green; green mixed with a dab of lemon yellow. delicious.

~fiddlehead air~

a fiddlehead furled, clutching
tightly to protect her embryo
of green leaves uncoiling
pulsing in rhythmic pain
the sweet juice of life
flows up from her roots
a spasm spilling tiny
delicate leaves which erupt on the edge
of the forest floor in a pang.

andante allegretto allegro
between discomfort and peace
listen to the ache of wildness as dozens play
on the wind, a melody born
in golden sun, a cry
in the woodland air
of fiddleheads newly emerged
soft moist tender
an orchestra of green whose harmony
quietly murmurs
a joyous air
for us all.
can you hear?
susurrando 
to the end.

the woods are waking up

the woods out back are finally waking up. the sun shineth! and the temps have hit 60! a lot of little bits of green are sprouting up everywhere along the forest floor and in the garden. and the buds! the buds! there are buds on the trees all over the place, but they are still so tiny they don't show up in any pictures. yet. but soon they will. even though the buds are visible (please believe me), for just a short while longer the trees will remain an awkward ensemble of black skeletons lurking behind the house.

i bought several pots of tiny daffodils and campanula over a week ago. the table and the windowsills in the kitchen looked great with all that yellow, purple and green color. after enjoying them indoors, i added them to a bed of already existing daffodils, oregano and chives in the garden.

last year at this time we had a big tom turkey and his lady visiting our yard every day for a couple weeks. i haven't seen any wild turkeys in the yard this year. where are you, my extra large feathered friends? this is opening day of the spring wild turkey hunting season in maine. gobblers beware!

spring peepers

last night at eight o'clock i took the dogs out in the garden and all around me was the most beautiful noise, a chorus of spring peepers singing their hearts out......

maine coast fairy brunch

today i am daydreaming about what to include in a maine coast fairy brunch menu. perhaps this.....

millet seeds
phlox seeds
sunflower seeds
black eyed susan seeds
acorn shell with water

in order for fairies to notice a meal left for them as they fly around in the garden and woods, and also for them to be able to dine properly, the food should be served in an appealing, natural setting. for example, a good place for fairies to eat is on a lovely bed of moss, a large fallen tree, or, in this case, a nice, flat stone of pink speckled maine granite. do you think a fairy will fly by and see that brunch is ready?

look up. there's a fairy. the fairy sees the food that has been prepared for her. from high above in the trees, she will slowly, cautiously, fly down and eat. welcome to our maine garden, tiny guest. enjoy!

happy weekend kiddos!

note: a delightful book about fairy gardens is maureen heffernan's fairy houses of the maine coast.

before the frost

i was thinking about what the outdoors looks like before the first frost. in the fall, frost can surprise us one morning as it sneaks in and turns everything brown and brittle. these are a few glimpses of what was, and what will be again.

as the cold weather approaches, we can at least think about warmer weather by directing our thoughts toward spring and what we'll plant next year. but first, here in maine, before we feel the warmth again, we have to slowly make our way through the snow and wind and ice. winter is beautful. just be sure to wear toasty layers of clothes (think L.L.BEAN) to enjoy it!

putting the garden to bed

it's that time of year again. we have tons of leaves to rake in our yard, so i tackle them a little at a time. i am very fond of my small i-push-it-myself mulching lawn mower. it does a great job, and i get in about 2.5 miles of walking each time i mow the lawn. most of the leaves are cleaned up not by me, but by my hard-working mower. i mow over the leaves and then rake up any little piles the lawn mower spits out. it is much easier raking small bits of mulched leaves than it is raking big piles of regular leaves.

i also mow over some of the trimmed (any big stalks removed) flower beds - the mower is small enough so i can get into little nooks and crannies - and i toss in some extra well-mulched leaves on top of the beds. it is a good way to start putting the garden to bed for the winter. in this picture, i like how the leaves on the lawn look like pieces of fall colored confetti. did you know that the first confetti was not colored paper confetti? confetti (same root word as confectionery) was originally sweets and nuts coated in sugar, or candy wrapped in colorful paper. the sweet nuts and candy bits were then tossed at celebrations and carnivals.