4 August 2023 (morning rain)

morning rain

a day lily bud opens

in the vase

22 July 2022 (day lily)

sun burning through fog

I forget the name of this

pink day lily

12 July 2022 (storm front)

storm front

the day lilies bend

before it

19 July 2021 (day lilies)

day lilies open wide . . .

the loud laughter

from our neighbors’ party

18 July 2020 (lilies)

morning heat

yellow day lilies spill

down the hillside

July 11: Ripening and blooming

This morning I had to laugh as a catbird emphatically "chuck-chuck chuck-chuck'ed" in the blueberry bush, staring at the hard green berries as if willing them to ripen. 

Later, at home, I collected a shirt full of cherry tomatoes from my hanging tomato plant, warmed by the sun and so sweet when popped in my mouth. Meanwhile, many of the flowers in my garden are in bloom or ready to bloom--the deep orange Embers of Vesuvius day lily is loaded with long buds, and the echinacea patch looks about ready to unfurl its petals and show its many faces.

Catbird and I, both

impatient for blueberries

just now blushing pink.

March 9: Receding snow

Noticed that the day lily closest to the house, sheltered by the front step, has begun to emerge from the cold underground where it has lain dormant all winter, sending forth bright green tips that almost shine against the surrounding dead leaves and dirty snow.

As the snow recedes,
daylily shoots emerge.
I shiver.

July 31: Pollen

Last week I endured a battery of allergy tests. I thought I was done with all that when I was a kid, when my entire back reacted to almost everything on the scratch test and I had to get allergy shots for years. They seemed to work for a while, and most people with chronic allergies grow less sensitive as they get older.

Alas, not I. (I blame global climate change.) Hence, the day at the allergy doctor's office, where, once more, my back (and arms, this time) reacted to just about everything except a few things the shots seemed to have taken care of: no molds this time around, no trees except ash, no feathers. (Of course one of the biggest trees in my back yard, hanging right over the house, is an ash.) The usual trigger flowers--goldenrod, ragweed--plus "mixed grasses" and sagebrush (sagebrush?!) were also high on the list, along with good ol' cats and dogs, and that ubiquitous allegen, dust. Seriously, who isn't allergic to dust?

After being shown a video on how to dust-proof my bedroom (short answer: get rich, replace all your linens with hypoallergenic ones made by the video's sponsor, install an air conditioner, and hire a cleaning lady to properly clean your bedroom once a week as recommended because who has time for that?), I was given some new prescriptions and sent on my merry way. Oh yes, and I'm supposed to keep the cat out of the bedroom. Or get rid of her. Obviously, the doctor doesn't have a cat. I've lived with cats my entire life, so I'm going to work harder on avoiding the goldenrod instead. Because there's not much of that around when one is out in the field hiking or birding...

But I got some good new drugs out of the visit, and a renewed respect for pollen. We can't see it, yet it has the ability to make our lives truly miserable. At least the cat purrs and cuddles with you. Pollen just hangs in the air, insidious, waiting for that chance to enter your nasal passages...

So today working in my flower garden it was with no small horror that I looked down to see my left arm smeared with gold pollen. Big grainy pollen, gold as saffron, a beautiful color. Must have been from the day lilies. I seem to still be breathing just fine, so apparently it wasn't anything I'm allergic to... yet.

On my tan wrist, smear
of gold pollen, fairy dust,
a forbidden kiss.

July 8: Flowering

Suddenly, my garden is full of blooming flowers again! This mid-summer wave of flowering, amid the chaos of unweeded greenery that is the front yard, brings some of my favorites: the sunset-purple clematis climbing the porch railing, a succession of day lilies in orange, red, pink, and more orange, and the tall, cardinal-red bee balm that attracts hummingbirds. And soon, the bright purple stars of echinacea will join in, as well. 

Midsummer again--
orange lilies open for 
their day in the sun. 

  

July 1: Summer night

This morning, still in pajamas, I water the hanging plants, letting the dewy grass wet my bare feet. The neighborhood is quiet except for one robin singing from the coolness of the trees...

There was more action out there last night after twilight crept in and the heavy burden of hot, humid air lifted slightly: pack of kids playing volleyball in the neighbors' back yard grew louder as it grew darker and harder to see the ball. Streetlights came on. Cats came out to prowl the sidewalks and yards. Our cat, staying cool in the kitchen window, was fascinated by cats howling at each other in the street in front of our house. We joined her at the window, watching as the two cats made unearthly noises, circled each other, and then seemed to reach a standoff--after which, one cat rolled submissively in the gravel, the other stalked off to huddle under my car. Above the lawn, a firefly blinked on and off like a warning beacon.

But now another unusually hot day is underway. The buds of the day lilies swell. A squirrel performs its morning ablutions on the fence post in full view of a window where the cat often sits. She can't be bothered to come see. In the shadowy living room, she's scratching at a patch of sun on the floor as if it were a living thing, as if to draw it closer.

Is it love or war?
Two cats made loud by heat, dark,
face off in the street.

September 1: September begins...

The air feels like September: crisp at night, brilliant blue sky during the day. The bay's a deeper blue than the sky. I had lunch on an outside patio today overlooking the ocean, feeling fortunate to have such beauty (almost) in my back yard.

A fat goldfinch fledgling hung out gorging in our window feeder, even after I pulled the car into the driveway next to it.

Around the corner tucked in between the house and the propane tank, with dead leaves stuck to its web, sits a giant mottled brown-and-white spider. It's both repellent and fascinating. More fascinating than the large spider that wouldn't leave my bathroom sink this morning.

The air already smells of leaf mold. Fern fronds are browned, curled up. Hum of the crickets has a tone that's somewhere between desperate and comforting.

The Strawberry Candy day lily has bloomed again in one last fit of summer flowering.

These in-between days,
that bittersweet edge--blue skies
and one red maple.