Late morning and I take a slow, unsteady walk to sit in the backyard, to listen to the wren and the dunnock and get some light. I could hear them singing a duet from the dark kitchen. It is cold out here and everything is parched and faded. I move painfully to fetch a support for the peonies that have flopped over the path. I have been watering things when I can, worried that without something to drink, the early spring flowers - the cerinthe, the bleeding heart, the rosemary, the forget-me-not flowers of the brunnera - won’t be able to make enough nectar for the bees. A dry April is frightening and this is our third in a row. I have tried so hard to make this garden a banquet. I can look around me and see all my willing and see the garden’s bright determination too, but I know that the things around me aren’t getting what they need. There is a strange, sad companionship in knowing it. I understand this predicament.
On Having Needs
On Having Needs
On Having Needs
Late morning and I take a slow, unsteady walk to sit in the backyard, to listen to the wren and the dunnock and get some light. I could hear them singing a duet from the dark kitchen. It is cold out here and everything is parched and faded. I move painfully to fetch a support for the peonies that have flopped over the path. I have been watering things when I can, worried that without something to drink, the early spring flowers - the cerinthe, the bleeding heart, the rosemary, the forget-me-not flowers of the brunnera - won’t be able to make enough nectar for the bees. A dry April is frightening and this is our third in a row. I have tried so hard to make this garden a banquet. I can look around me and see all my willing and see the garden’s bright determination too, but I know that the things around me aren’t getting what they need. There is a strange, sad companionship in knowing it. I understand this predicament.