As a day in June? Many thanks to James Russell Lowell (the poet) and my mother, Violet, who spouted numerous flowery poems whenever she got a captive audience. It seems that in her day, high school kids were made to memorize large chunks of poetry. We teased her unmercifully, poor thing, but as archaic as the words sounded to our teenage ears, the beauty was not completely lost on us. Really, what IS so rare as a day in June?
This crazy forested lot that we landed on is wildly charming. There is no controlling the runaway eruption of green that is spring in New Hampshire. I used to think I could bring it all under control, but gave up a few years ago on that idea, and began to pick focal points to color in with annuals. The rest of it is up to God. So I sit back and watch the series of small and riotous explosions as the earth warms to the sunlight. Dandelions and violets, known to some as weeds. Surprise perennlals that survived the winter. A majenta foxglove that I almost mistook for a weed. Rose bushes on the edge of the woods, spouting tiny red blossoms. Daisies and bright yellow primroses popping up at random. And everywhere, those insane orange tiger lilies just now ready to fan out in splendor.
Now these perfect June days slip by, like iridescent pearls on the broken string of time. We have turned the corner of the solstice and tilt once more toward the dark. So let’s keep eyes and ears wide open. Let’s soak up those moments to pull out and remember when the snow falls around us.
