I no sooner got the last of the liveoak leaves swept up (the pile is as big as a 57 Chevy, thank God it's hidden behind garden shed) than the fuzzy caterpillar things have now descended like a plague.
But I'm not complaining. The pink, white, and rose cosmos are nodding among their lacy foliage. This evening I was sitting on the deck, knocking back a vodka tonic and admiring the fingernail moon, when I saw the first firefly.
And while it's a bit early, here's a Mary Oliver poem that says it all.
May, and among the miles of leafing,
blossoms storm out of the darkness—
windflowers and moccasin flowers. The bees
dive into them and I too, to gather
their spiritual honey. Mute and meek, yet theirs
is the deepest certainty that this existence too—
this sense of well-being, the flourishing
of the physical body—rides
near the hub of the miracle that everything
is a part of, is as good
as a poem or a prayer, can also make
luminous any dark place on earth.
1 week ago