Hello, Sunday Window Dear. I was not expecting your whirly stars and feather-flame petals, going in all directions. Every which way, you are beautiful – but I like you best peeking out from the soft, waking up from your dream.
The magnolia buds are open. Flower doesn’t seem a strong enough word for the long elegant stars, or thick pink cups each tree supports in the hundreds. Or the marvel of the yellow magnolias that look as if a gold finch has perched on every twig, and the entire tree is waiting to burst into flight.
I scrumbled the dirt around in my community garden plot today, and opened my first packet of seeds – little pellets that somehow might become strawflowers. Then the tiny tan and black parachutes of bachelor’s buttons – and the long spikes of cosmos, like some exotic caraway seed.
I’ll have to visit my seeds everyday now – especially if we don’t get rain. I have no doubt they are prepared to do their job, these time travelers who have stored up all that last summer offered. The question is, have I done mine? Can it really enough just to give them a foot hold, and make sure they have something to drink?
If even a few become the tall, unruly creatures I imagine, luring bees and rain into their orbit by Showing Their Stuff in blue and pink and white and candy stripes – I will be one of the happiest humans on planet earth.
Will wonders never cease.