June

I can tell it is June. Not by the grey sky outside my window or the chill in the air. Not so much by the late hour of nightfall as I'm often still at my desk. I can tell because my rose bushes are covered with blooms and there is one giant white peony bobbing at the top of my spindly peony bush. Last spring when we moved into the house the back yard was barren. A previous owner with allergies had had all but the crab grass pulled up. So, the climbing hydrangea was a leggy adolescent when I bought it at a garden fair and put it in next to the garage wall and the rose bushes were spiny and spidery when they moved in next to the fence. Last fall in the purest act of faith I carefully buried three gnarled shaggy clumps purported to be peonies. As soon as the snowdrops popped up under the frosty lawn I started hovering over the future peonies. All spring long I would tip-toe across the soggy yard in whatever pair of heels I'd worn to work and encourage the little hopefully-not-weeds that sprouted there. Meanwhile the lilies of the valley, the chives, the helleborus and the allium grew. They sprouted, they grew, they made little buds that opened into flowers just like they knew what they were doing. I am looking forward to the garden's July when I accept on faith that there will be poppies, echinacea, phlox and lilies to enjoy.