while the crystal globes of the dandelions shed their seeds on the wind
the birds dance in the air above the lapping stream
and the rustle of the poplar leaves is threaded with birdsong
The wild roses are blooming in the ravine, sweet heady scent. After the rain, the ground is soft and dark, and the green burgeoning. Most things have recovered now from early heat and drought, though it looks like there will be no hazelnuts this year. The creek flooded from the heavy rains in the past two weeks and the lower trail is sticky with thick mud and logs drifted across the path.
I always think of my mother at this time of year. The wild roses bloom around her birthday, June 6. Things are a bit early this year....I saw three yellow warblers, like impossibly bright moving flowers, dart among the green leaves as I walked, a blast of complex interwoven trajectories, like celtic knotwork in motion– then gone from sight.
Seasons. Connections. Memories.
