The sunset-orange waves of ditch lilies have passed, replaced by tall, sandy seed heads of grass, light as feathers and bowing in unison as the wind ruffles through. And everywhere the white caps of Queen Ann’s Lace – infinities of tiny flowers pulled to order along thin arches of tender stems, like so many flying buttresses.
I try to see all the greens – but we don’t have enough words for them. A carpet of deep, flat soy, a wall of thick, sharp corn – each following the dips and swells of the land. Woods gather along the horizon, with more species than I can name – but certainly there are ash and cottonwood, maple and oak, hickory and walnut.
And I cry while I’m driving, for the lonely Saturday morning, for the sliver of purpose I’m clinging to making this trip – all there is to shield me from the glare of my failures.
Because I can at least so deeply love this place and the ordinary magic of its summer sky covering over the greens. And I can go a little ways to find flowers I never would have had, brought to life by people I can know and thank. And this, despite everything can’t be denied – to see all the summer greens and watch the nodding dance of lace and grass and never wish to be anywhere else.