As the sun rises over the hill in the east on this Sunday morning, I sit in my chair, by my window, with my cup of coffee. I watch the swallows carrying nesting materials into the houses, the hummingbird flitting around the feeder but not lighting long enough for my camera to capture him. I know it is him, because the early morning sun caught the red sparkles on his throat. It is early in the season, and my camera will capture him more than once before it ends, I am certain. The orioles are back too – I have caught glimpses of them with my eyes. Not the camera. You’ve seen their pictures in past years, but I will share again. Because they are such beauties, such bright spots in the days.
Early this past week I wandered about the yard near the house, enjoying the gifts of the earth in the spring, camera in hand.
In my morning room, as I go out the door, I see my Christmas Cactus has decided to become a May Cactus, gracing us with her lovely flowers once again. I hope this is just a welcome to spring and not a sign that she is having a breakdown of some sort – getting her schedule confused. Her spots of color are very very welcome in the winter and I would miss them if they did not arrive.
The little Grape Muscari, members of the Hyacinth family I believe, are the loveliest blue. I have planted masses of them around the pullout bed and once the crocus are done, while the daffodils are smiling at us, before the tulips show their shining faces, these little guys glow with joy. It’s contagious, that joy. I find myself smiling at them as I walk by. One of those times I am very glad I am not being watched – no one about to say “look at that crazy old lady, walking around her yard smiling, talking to – what? – there’s nothing there but flowers”. Bad enough they might hear my conversations with my furry girls.
The little snub-nose daffodil with a lop ear. I have planted hundreds of daffodils meant for naturalizing since we moved here. They survive and multiply because the critters that delight so in my tulip bulbs cannot touch the daffodil bulbs. They know there is a toxin in those bulbs that will upset their tummies, if not create greater problems for them.
The angels of daffodils, these delicate little girls. Their color is so soft and gentle, you can almost hear the swish of their wings when your back is turned. When you look at them, innocence prevails; they do not give away their secret. But I know, because I am the crazy old woman who talks to her flowers. And her furry girls.
These – the queens of the daffodil world – stand tall and proud, flaunting their beauty. Defying someone to tell them they are not the rulers, the ones in charge. You see them only because they choose to allow it.
Pulmonaria perhaps – I will not swear I have that name right – little stragglers from the parent I planted several years ago. These blue flowers with touches of raspberry pink are another of the spring visitors. Have you noticed that early spring seems to be a season of blue and yellow, with occasional touches of pinks and whites? Later in the spring the reds will appear.
A tiny little pansy, the only bloom on the remnant of the plant put into this spot a couple of years ago. This year she shall be replaced – very soon now. I have bought a new resident for this cup of soil.
A section of creeping myrtle – there are lots of these in my front yard just off my deck. Soon I will move to that deck for my morning coffee, where I will have full view of their perky little faces although their bloom period is not as long as I would like.
That is the tour of the garden close by the house. Inside the house, a bouquet of the double daffodils, whose heads are heavier than their stems are strong, so as they open and lean to the ground, I cut and bring in for inside enjoyment. My vase of sunshine.