A weekend gone too fast, of his parents and good food and wonderful stories and tall tales and laughter while we listened to old records. We all enjoyed the too-brief visit. Yesterday they travelled home again, and S & I spent time we have not had together. I have missed him. It was a delightful day, full of dancing and love and looks and smiles, full of books and naps and work in the garden in between rain showers. We harvested the new growth from our tea camellia, and roasted the small green leaves, brewed cups, and drank the delicate sencha green tea.
When the thorns are too soft to poke, new fleshy foliage just unfurled, when the ground is damp and gives beneath my feet in between April showers we picked blackberry leaves. Yesterday was an unexpected, a quiet and a bluster, we had some time warm sun and then some time fast cold gusty wind, and then torrential rain and hail. The big cumulo-nimbus built their sharp silver anvil shapes in the soft pale hazy blue and scudded pregnant and dark-bellied over the valley.
While the thorns are not hard enough to poke, yet, but still may snag and draw beads of blood, finger-pricks and caution, long vines tangling, we harvested berry leaves. The tender shoots, small ruffles an array of colors, pink, crimson, green, pale yellow, I tasted some just sprouted and there it was, the tang and berry taste of soon-comes-summer. We finger pruned the leaves of black berries, raspberries, strawberries, the logan and goose and blue berries, mixed them and roasted them in the oven and stored them for later tea times.
When the wind picked up her skirts and shook her hair at us and we felt the first droplets come flying sideways despite the sun, we headed back indoors with our colanders full of berry leaves. We ate artichokes and a baguette for lunch, and drank a bottle of red wine, and took a nap. I would spend all my days walking through wet grass while sunshine warmed the earth, steam rising from tree branches and every living thing awakening after winter's slumber, the light of the sky soft and sweet. I would spend all days beside him, with fingertips brushing the cool damp dark soil, watching the newly sprung plants reach for the sunlight, little seedlings that will grow big before fall. They will grow big and flower and set fruit. The world is vibrating with real energy, not falsely excited, uncontainable, uncontrollable; the plants care nothing for politics or economics or the petty secondary absorption of the cosmopolitan world. Consider the lilies of the field. I would live in the springtime always.
When the thorns are too soft to poke, new fleshy foliage just unfurled, when the ground is damp and gives beneath my feet in between April showers we picked blackberry leaves. Yesterday was an unexpected, a quiet and a bluster, we had some time warm sun and then some time fast cold gusty wind, and then torrential rain and hail. The big cumulo-nimbus built their sharp silver anvil shapes in the soft pale hazy blue and scudded pregnant and dark-bellied over the valley.
While the thorns are not hard enough to poke, yet, but still may snag and draw beads of blood, finger-pricks and caution, long vines tangling, we harvested berry leaves. The tender shoots, small ruffles an array of colors, pink, crimson, green, pale yellow, I tasted some just sprouted and there it was, the tang and berry taste of soon-comes-summer. We finger pruned the leaves of black berries, raspberries, strawberries, the logan and goose and blue berries, mixed them and roasted them in the oven and stored them for later tea times.
When the wind picked up her skirts and shook her hair at us and we felt the first droplets come flying sideways despite the sun, we headed back indoors with our colanders full of berry leaves. We ate artichokes and a baguette for lunch, and drank a bottle of red wine, and took a nap. I would spend all my days walking through wet grass while sunshine warmed the earth, steam rising from tree branches and every living thing awakening after winter's slumber, the light of the sky soft and sweet. I would spend all days beside him, with fingertips brushing the cool damp dark soil, watching the newly sprung plants reach for the sunlight, little seedlings that will grow big before fall. They will grow big and flower and set fruit. The world is vibrating with real energy, not falsely excited, uncontainable, uncontrollable; the plants care nothing for politics or economics or the petty secondary absorption of the cosmopolitan world. Consider the lilies of the field. I would live in the springtime always.
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