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
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.
2 comments:
So you are having problems with the caterpillars. Mine aren't the fuzzy ones but the little green inchworms. This year there have been very few of them. (Although I did snatch one off of AJM's plate before he bit into his salad last night. Must do a better job of washing the greens.)
What a lovely poem.
We have the swallowtail caterpillars here now chowing down all the dill.
Eww on the salad - he'll be paranoid now. ;-)
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