The sun was warm today. Bright and full of hope that spring may be right around the bend, I couldn’t help but get lost in springtime promises, all thoughts of cold and snow burnt out by warm sunshine reddening my winter white skin. I’ve been dreaming of the warm days ahead that will coax my spring bulbs from their wintery homes beneath the melting snow into the warmth of the day’s sun.
Last summer I enjoyed the first season of a few clumps of Black-Eyed Susans that I had carefully dug out of my mother’s overflowing flower garden to transplant into my own. The idea of sharing a garden, extending its profusion, honoring its humble beginnings where my mother had lovingly planted it first, watered and encouraged it into full bloom, is an idea that is so magical to me. The thought that I can have a piece of that for many years to come is enchanting. A plant reincarnated, living two lives at once, multiplied exponentially.
I was absolutely taken with my newly transplanted yellow blooms. They were superstars shining brightly in my garden. Blooming all summer, without a fuss about water, weeds or bugs, they simply burst into full bloom as if happy just for the sun’s light every day.
I loved watching them from bud to full bloom. Their buds would begin to unfurl, petalled fingers one at a time, very slowly opening, as if just shyly peeking into the unimaginably bright sunlight for the first moment.
The next day a few more petalled fingers would loose their tight grip on the bud, letting a little more sunshine in.
They came to remind me of child-like buds playing peek-a-boo in my garden with each other. One would peek out over this way, one over here would still be clenched tightly, wound up in its bud’s newness.
Day by day, they slowly released their tight grip upon each other. Until that glorious day when they finally gave in to the sun’s gentle beckoning and unfolded completely, bright yellow petals curled open to their new summer life in my garden. Complete with bumble bees, hummingbirds and kitties resting in their cool shade.
I wonder if they dreamed sunny dreams of their long lost cousins, separated a year ago from my mother’s country garden on the hill above town. Maybe a delicate butterfly, aloft on the gentle breeze would light upon them, and whisper news of their previous garden home, of grandkids running in joy around them, raccoons stealthily creeping through them at night with a plan up their sleeves and cool pond water showers from sprinklers on summer afternoons.
I like to think they brought a bit of the country here to my garden in the heart of town.