The buttercups are mostly gone now, fallen to the lengthening afternoons and rising temperatures, taking back with them their poisons and their shine and their ways of telling the truth. In their places are dandelions, brightly incubating our wishes for the summer. Soon our skies will be full of them.
I keep hoping, you know, like an idiot. For whatever. An explanation or an olive branch or an apology or a carrier pigeon or an explosion. A time machine to last month. I'm not very easily won, but I am pretty easily won back, and I am finding it difficult to believe that it is so easy to disappear on a person. Some lessons I am unlikely to ever learn.
In my garden everything is blooming, falls of bold orange and yellow nasturtiums and climbing shy pink sweet peas, spikes and clumps of red geraniums, little yellow flowers and smaller blue ones. Everywhere I go lately seems to be with an escort of soft white butterflies, and I'll be hanging a hummingbird feeder just as soon as I can figure out how to get up that high. One of these mornings I hope to wake up and find bunnies and baby deer picking out my outfit for the day. All of this color and growing and newness is inexplicably calming. Still, I am ready for the breeze to be burdened with wishes.
If I'm not careful, my face is going to freeze like this.