Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Summer



The summer flowers in my pots are blown out and wild. Save only one young green shoot that has sprung up through the leftovers of July's glory. I remember planting it many months ago. I had picked up the bag of bulbs for a dollar, knowing at the time it was well past their planting season. But I shoved them deep in the soil anyway, under summer's chamomile and lavender, with the hopes of maybe a few blooms in the spring. But this early one is such a sweet surprise. I have been watching it unfold throughout the week, in between the endless trips to Target and the mall.


"Oh, mom, I forgot to get...and what if I need...and do you think my dorm will have?"


So we make the list and off we go again. My Summer is my planner, my prepared girl. She could live on an island for a year, from the boxes of supplies stacking up in our garage.


 "Sweetie, you are only an hour away, if you forget something, I can bring it to you," I tell her.


But I don't think she can hear me. I can see the wheels turning in her mind. She hasn't really been here for weeks now. So much of her is already there, walking the pathway's to her classes, lost in all those daydreams of what is to come, and come ever so quickly they will.


Tomorrow, 9am.


It is no surprise to me that in this morning's warm sunlight, that young green shoot is in full bloom. It is also no surprise to me that it is yellow. Eighteen years ago I brought my little Summer baby home in yellow. It has always been her color, my sunshine girl.


Soon I will clean out the pots on my porch and make room for falls wine and wheat colored mums. I will shake out the dried sprigs of chamomile and lavender and the wind will carry their seeds away. I pray they will land and take root somewhere kind. They have quite a journey to brave. They will have to hide from the militant gardener, with his ceaseless noise polluting blower. I'll never understand the need to push leaves around with a bossy machine, when God does a pretty decent job of it all on His own, swirling the fallen shades of gold and red in the Autumn breeze.









1 comment:

  1. I love you more than the sea loves to kiss the shore

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