Yesterday the clouds were big and little dots, paw-prints racing ahead of today's cold front. The wind set the aspen leaves next door to rattling; if your eyes were closed, they sounded almost like a mountain stream chuckling over pebbles. The desert olive trees hissed softly. Big and little bees that for some reason reminded me of the clouds scudding overhead buzzed around the catmint. I watched one bee struggling against a sudden gust to reach its flower—any flower—and then bury itself in a world of pollen once it had succeeded.
It has been another weary week—a week where the tiredness is so strong it hurts—and thus also a week of being grateful for Adirondack chairs, footstools, patios, and spring weather. And cameras with zoom lenses.
still sneering at the autumn sage, since they go right past). I have enjoyed the small tableaux that appear unexpectedly when you limit your field of vision; the scent of a neighbor's honeysuckle wafting over the wall; a lunch-time nibble on a bit of garlic leaf; the splashes of color here and there—the first of the wine cups in what seems to have become a "dry riverbed" sort of bed without my quite intending it to,
|Salvia greggii 'Wild Thing'|
the breath-takingly gentle contrast between silver betony's calyx and corolla;
the slow opening of daisies.
|Anthemis tinctoria 'Susanna Mitchell'|
Generally in Microcosm I am looking for some connection between my garden and the wider world, but sometimes there is no obvious or necessary connection—just an experience to be enjoyed on its own, a moment—or an hour, or an afternoon—to be lived, without meaning anything beyond its own beauty.
I'm beginning to realize that that is the essence of rest.