I have been planting all afternoon. Tomatoes, lettuces, parsley, rosemary. Weeding, too, because the garden is overrun. And all the while, the peonies are about to burst open, the lupines are a crescendo of color, the native columbine is a festival of salmon-red lanterns, and the blue comfrey is a cloud of buzz and blue. False indigo, sweet blue flag, and the outrageous perennial poppies are blooming, too.
While I plant I am planning. Squash in the back of the garden. Cucumbers by that fence. Narrowleaf echinacea under the currants. Then other things. Pavers for the outdoor kitchen. And screen, too. Construction trash carted away. Mulch for new garden beds along the driveway, which I will narrow to a path.
In the thick of it all, another burst of rain moves through. The goats, tethered to stakes in the blueberry field (yet out of reach of the blueberries), bleat wildly. The goats hate the rain, but I do not. I love the colors of Spring thickening into Summer, bodies of mist stretching up the mountainsides, the dark, wet shadows teeming with Life.
The Moon is in Cancer, so I keep planting, and then lay out seeds for tomorrow: bloodflower for the monarchs, collards, tat-soi. High over me, a kingfisher rattles and rattles, circling over the garden. I grow curious and watch her antics. Soon her partner joins her, and they chase off a pair of some other bird–starlings, I hope. The sky is tinged with pink. I say a prayer for my mother, then turn back to the work at hand.