the catawba tree is blooming, and i do what i do every year, i go out there and stand underneath it and stare up through its branches and blossoms, into the sky it seems to touch, and imagine it as home - i would sleep over there, i think, and breakfast with the birds on that branch there - and i point a camera at it, into it, from west, east, north, and south, in early morning sun-arise, at dusk and almost dark, in afternoon heat and wind and thunderstorms, and i never ever get it, that elusive image that would say without words all the things i feel when the blooms are falling. neverever. i am not photographer enough.
it is the time of year when we fall between the pinks of spring and those of summer, and in my neighborhood, on my little block in fact, the pinks are gone for good, leaving behind whites and some yellows, leaving lots of green and skies that will be what they choose, but which will choose mostly blue. by june it will just be green beyond my door. green and honeysuckle, heat and a red brick road. this morning is cold, however, one last trick by a winter that refuses to go gently into that good night, and by cold i mean i have fire in the heater but my feet are still bare, and the honeysuckle along the creek is fat and full and embracing the sun.
this small place i call mine, that at least twice a year feels too confining and full of tired memories, is still the place i stay, despite threats to its walls to just leave and adios, thank you. it has heard its share of cursing, and yet, here i am. still. the trees are sure things to help me mark my calendar, i know the time of year by the slant of the sun across the road. and despite the feeling that nothing changes, things do, held steady by the things that don't.
this year we are using the back yard. my mother's picnic table calls us. we have moved lawn furniture from the side yard to sit next to the back porch. we sit in the sun and read, and earlier this week, michael decided it was too nice outside to eat lunch inside. there are white flowers in a planter and neighbors stop by with wine. the neighborhood still holds sway over our lives, and my mother's cat at last calls it home.
i stabbed my finger, the one i point with, the overworked one right there on my right hand, a hidden sliver of broken glass the culprit, and the band-aid drags across the keyboard, misspelling words and adding unwanted spaces. such a tiny spot, no bigger than a pencil point - still, i thought it would never stop bleeding.
it's after 9 on a monday night.
i can't see this little heart in the darkness, but i know it's out there,
across the bridge, almost to the garlic plant.