Mid-June Musings

The driveway is covered with male pine cones and more dead branches, each an indicator that my complaints about windy weather have been well-founded. As of sometime today, the 90's previously forecast for tomorrow and Wednesday have disappeared from the weather app on my "smart phone." Highs of only 89 will feel much cooler, no doubt.

a good year for wildflowers: 2014

Photo by J. Harrington

Today we declared last Autumn's efforts to start a wildflower patch next to the burr oak at the end of the drive a failure. The corners of the driveway where it meets the township road have been mowed. This past Autumn, I did little more to prepare the site than rake heavily with a metal tined rake and then scattered the seeds. That's consistent with a number of other failures we'd had trying to get wild flowers, ones we've  planted, to grow anywhere on our property. On the other hand, the feral oregano keeps expanding and taking over the "lawn," and the little bluegrass we seeded about twenty years ago is still thriving.

asters with bee

Photo by J. Harrington

The years when we've had wet Springs and Summers have brought an abundance of wildflowers by this time in June. Most "normal" years, no so much. That's likely an example of seeds lying dormant until conditions are conducive for a successful germination. Maybe, if the small engine specialists ever return our tiller, we can till, fertilize, and seed the area again this Autumn. That should improve the conditions and we'll then  see if anything comes up next year. I also want to look for more robust aster plants. None of those we planted for the past several years have made it through a Winter.

Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?

By Mary Oliver

Don’t call this world adorable, or useful, that’s not it.

It’s frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.

The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.

The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.

But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white

feet of the trees

whose mouths open.

Doesn’t the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?

Haven’t the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,

until at last, now, they shine

in your own yard?

Don’t call this world an explanation, or even an education.

When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking

outward, to the mountains so solidly there

in a white-capped ring, or was he looking

to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea

that was also there,

beautiful as a thumb

curved and touching the finger, tenderly,

little love-ring,

as he whirled,

oh jug of breath,

in the garden of dust?

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