E weeded and rototilled the vegetable garden for me the other day to get it ready to plant again. Basically I don't think I'd looked at it since August, and it was like the Land Before Time in there. Oops.
But lo and behold, we had some forgotten strawberry plants with ripe strawberries. Nothing like a surprise harvest to get us inspired to plant our little summer veggie farm. Yum.
This reminds me. Almost time to make some jam.
K helped me figure out what to buy for our planter next to the peach tree, too. I came home from the nursery with a trunk full of pretty pink and white geraniums and all sorts of veggies for the vegetable garden. Our backyard is officially complete, plant-wise. And I made sure to get everything in the ground last night so I didn't end up letting anything die.
Also, this: I love, love, love (have I not said this yet?) our backyard now. I love that it is such a nice place to hang out. We've never had that before. I've been out there every night after work and it just makes me happy. It's a tiny little space but it's awesome.
I've got plants on the brain right now. Life is hectic until school ends. Plants seem calm.
Anyway. Here's a poem about peonies. Just because.
by Mary Oliver
This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers
and they open--
pools of lace,
white and pink--
and all day the black ants climb over them,
boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away
to their dark, underground cities--
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,
the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
their red stems holding
all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again--
beauty the brave, the exemplary,
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?
Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,
with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are