NO VOYAGE

By Mary Oliver

I wake earlier, now that the birds have come
And sing in the unfailing trees.
On a cot by an open window
I lie like land used up, while spring unfolds.

Now of all voyagers I remember, who among them
Did not board ship with grief among their maps?—
Till it seemed men never go somewhere, they only leave
Wherever they are, when the dying begins.

For myself, I find my wanting life
Implores no novelty and no disguise of distance;
Where, in what country, might I put down these thoughts,
Who still am citizen of this fallen city?

On a cot by an open window, I lie and remember
While the birds in the trees sing of the circle of time.
Let the dying go on, and let me, if I can,
Inherit from disaster before I move.

O, I go to see the great ships ride from harbor,
And my wounds leap with impatience; yet I turn back
To sort the weeping ruins of my house:
Here or nowhere I will make peace with the fact.

A butterfly in black and white peruses one of the Chinese dogwoods in our backyard. Its wings flutter slightly, almost in slow-motion. The effect is magical. Calming. It is a much smaller thing than these photos might make it appear. I barely noticed it.

When you stop to look closer at the world, it opens up to receive you.

After the ride home from Boston, a badly-needed dip in the pool was just what was needed. The only problem was that with the removal of a decent-sized cherry tree that once provided a shaded corner, the entire pool is now wide open to the sun (and in just under an hour I had already gained a minor burn on my shoulders for being out for the first time in months).

I improvised with a colorful umbrella, a leftover from last year’s absence of a proper canopy. Now that we have the latter, the extra bit of portable shade could be moved closer to the pool, where I hung myself on the edge, dangled my body into the water, and graciously gave thanks for the smaller charms of a hot afternoon.

A practically-perfect weekend in Boston – with Skip for our third annual Red Sox game – was exactly what was needed and just in the nick of time. More on that in greater detail, for now let’s slide into this steamy Monday in a quiet and simple way – looking back at the week that was…

All about the garden, with one peony and one weigela, a jack-in-the-pulpit, a Baptisia, a begonia, a dogwood and another peony.

James Franco nude.

Kinky pride peek.

The Great Comet of 1812.

A best friend’s birthday.

June hunks included JJ Yosh, Nathan Lee Graham, Bryce Eilenberg, Grant Foreman, Matthias Panitz, Junior Lazarotti, and Karlo Martinez.

Not every dogwood tree is the same. Not only is there a vast difference between the American dogwood and the Chinese dogwood, there are also subtle variations within each variety. This Chinese dogwood has pointier ‘blooms’ than some of its brothers. Though that makes them less showy individually, they make up for it in quantity and number. Peering up through the branches as the sun goes down behind them, one can see an endless canopy of stars – they seem to go on forever.

Underneath the dogwood in bloom is where I want to be.

Though our lawn is loving this rain, the containers that I planted, with the exception of the papyrus, are loathing it. I’m with them. Too much rain makes Jack a sad boy. It also makes for impossible germination in the case of the heat-seeking castor bean plant, which I made the misfortune of trying for the first time in this bad weather beginning. It’s also wreaking havoc with our hanging sweet potato vines, which are drenched in all the runoff from the patio canopy.

Beneath it, however, the begonias – probably the most sensitive to overwatering, are doing splendidly because I haven’t watered them once in their protected section. Here they are, giving the only decent show on the drenched patio right now.