The old dogwood on the edge of my garden looks like a wedding cake in full bloom, its white layers drooping from the weight of flowers. The shrub roses near the house have started to drop their fuchsia petals, but they are still so vibrant I can’t bring myself to cut them back yet. I need this June palette desperately. My world had gone so black and white that I had forgotten how shockingly alive the colors of early summer could be. I watch a tanager alight on the grass, painting a scarlet dot in the expanse of sloping green lawn. Its bright feathers match the poppy colored hibiscus in the pot on the lower patio, as if an artist had arranged a still life just for me.
Some lone rhododendrons crowd between other large shrubs and trees that ring the garden, their pale pink blossoms peeking out from jungle green, pretty, and slightly out of context. The rosebush I planted in the corner of the bed against the low stonewall is covered in orange buds, some of which have opened into apricot colored blooms. White butterflies glide amongst the sage just poking up, and the mint, already in purple flower. I can feel my body absorb the peacefulness of this benevolent Mother Nature. She has not been so forgiving of mankind lately.
Richelieu sings loudly from his cage that I set in the patch of shade thrown by one of the flowerpots. His tiny yellow form is in comic contrast to the big voice, mimicking calls of wild birds in the trees around him. Sugar sidles up to his cage, tail twitching and green eyes staring so intently through the bars that the canary starts hopping agitatedly up and down on his perch. “No Sugar,” I say warningly to the cat. She turns her head at the sound of my voice, gazing at me imperiously before slouching off the stone steps to the lawn, where she begins chewing on a blade of grass.
Hank lies patiently in the shade, but Charlie follows me importantly from task to task, trying to hurry me along so we can go for our walk. When I finally clip on their leashes and head down the lane, I’m hit by the aroma of honeysuckle growing wild in a thicket of shrubs. It is so fragrant that I fall into a blissful, almost drugged state. The soft warm air feels like a caress against my skin after the chill of spring, and the rain that wept from grey skies. As I turn onto the road that leads to the park, I notice the day lilies lining the shoulder have bloomed overnight into a ribbon of orange flowers. They are rust-tinged in color, as if the cold drip of darker seasons had created pools of stagnant, metallic matter, now transformed into things of beauty. And all it took was time, and some sunlight.
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