Yard, work!

For a couple of years now, two bags of "short-dry wildflower mix" seeds have been sitting on a shelf in the closet. They were purchased prematurely due to an optimistic assessment of how long it would take to pull a "small" area of buckthorn. Whether they're the appropriate seed mix for the place they were intended to go is also an unresolved question. As is our wont, we kept raising more and more questions instead of doing something. Over the years we've gradually learned that all too many of the seeds planted in our brain germinate, but they're weeds!

beardtongue, growing wild

Photo by J. Harrington

Now one bag of seeds has been scattered under an old burr oak out at the end of the drive. When today's posting is finished, we'll go tamp the seeds into better contact with the soil. We know from watching that the area in question gets a moderate amount of Summer sun, although little of it gets full sun. The part that gets full sun is within the township road R-O-W and subject to the whims of the township's mowing crew. These are some of the nuances of country living we were unaware of when we moved to an exurban location. Nor have we yet learned how to collect wildflower seeds on our own.

spotted horsemint, growing wild

Photo by J. Harrington

Last night's storm(s?) dropped another crop of dead, broken, lichen-covered branches. Most of them have been picked up already and put in the stacks for fire ring fires later this month and early October. A never-ending supply of dead sticks covering the yard and drive is another nuance of country living that had evaded our attention. It's become increasingly clear why, when we were commuting and working full time, yard chores rarely took a high priority. Now they're one of our better stratagems for getting exercise, even if it's only climbing on and off the tractor.

The variables related to planting and growing often befuddle us, probably because our world view remains more mechanistic and organic. We're working on it. Bread baking and poetry and fly fishing all help lead the way. It's become more and more clear to us that having a sustainable society on a livable planet is incompatible with a mechanical view of the universe or the economy. Another example of the kind of rethinking that would provide more time for family and yard work, i.e., a more balanced life, can be found in the 80% solution. No, it's not a Sherlock Holmes mystery.

Wildflower

Stanley Plumly- 1939-2019 

Some—the ones with fish names—grow so north
they last a month, six weeks at most.
Some others, named for the fields they look like,
last longer, smaller.

And these, in particular, whether trout or corn lily,
onion or bellwort, just cut
this morning and standing open in tapwater in the kitchen,
will close with the sun.

It is June, wildflowers on the table.
They are fresh an hour ago, like sliced lemons,
with the whole day ahead of them.
They could be common mayflower lilies of the valley,

day lilies, or the clustering Canada, large, gold,
long-stemmed as pasture roses, belled out over the vase--
or maybe Solomon's seal, the petals
ranged in small toy pairs

or starry, tipped at the head like weeds.
They could be anonymous as weeds.
They are, in fact, the several names of the same thing,
lilies of the field, butter-and-eggs,

toadflax almost, the way the whites and yellows juxtapose,
and have "the look of flowers that are looked at,"
rooted as they are in water, glass, and air.
I remember the summer I picked everything,

flower and wildflower, singled them out in jars
with a name attached. And when they had dried as stubborn
as paper I put them on pages and named them again.
They were all lilies, even the hyacinth,

even the great pale flower in the hand of the dead.
I picked it, kept it in the book for years
before I knew who she was,
her face lily-white, kissed and dry and cold.

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