MAY GARDEN MUSINGS FROM THE BLOOMERIE

If my garden could speak my native tongue, I wonder what I would hear it say.

In the morning, how would the blooming blackberries greet me? Would they whisper hellos or shout salutations as I rush through their walkway?

What about the snap peas? What would they have to say? Would they wish their time were not so fleeting, and bemoan how they’ve just learned to be?

Or the peppery flower of the nasturtium, peeking its face from beneath a blanket of green. How would it ask to be adored? Picked and placed on a perfect plate? Or left to lie among its leaves?

How about the birds? The butterflies? The bees? The trees?

If tomorrow I were greeted by a symphony of speech, bellowing from foliage, flowers, and beaks, I would stop and hear what they had to say. And I think they would tell me they’ve always spoken to me, just in their way. But they’d be happy to tell me what I’ve missed as I’ve hurried through my day.

The blackberry vines on the edges would first speak, their vines enrobing the fence line in green. They would say they wish I’d stopped more often to notice their ever-evolving show, a seasonal, choreographed routine. Their delicate pink flowers would hint that although they’re not yet fruit, their presence is just as sweet.

Then the rest of the spring flowers would join in. Their time is almost up, and they don’t want to miss their final chance to speak.

They would express gratitude for the care I gave, for sharing their beauty with those who needed their light to see. But they would also suggest I spend more time smelling their sweet scent, studying their strength and delicacy.

The bees and butterflies would flutter in too, spending a few more moments with their floral friends whose blooms have been their mainstay.

Then the remaining cool-season vegetables would bolt up and offer wisdom from their resiliency. “Don’t let darker days scare you. They gave you me.”

After sharing their last remark, they would send forth their hope for the future in the form of a flower, and then a seed.

Close behind would come their summer successors. Though still small, they would speak mightily, “Wait and see. The best is yet to come, if you can believe.”

Before they could say more, the sparrows would arrive, interrupting their speech. A melody of thanks to the blueberries for their fruit. “And thank you for letting us rest on your trellis,” they would sing to the peas. Then our eyes would meet, and they would smile, knowing how many times they’ve outsmarted my attempts to save some of the harvest just for me. 

After everyone had said their piece, they would all turn to me. And I would thank them. From the most glorious flower to the most humble weed. For helping me be human.  For helping make sense of the mystery. 

Love,

Leila