Right Now

My garden is like a poem in June—like the right series of words strung together.

Maybe it's ’cause I planted everything in early summer all those years ago—so it's basically a birthday celebration? Maybe it's ’cause June has that just right combo of sun and storm? Maybe it's ’cause none of that?

Anyway, even a month from now the grass will brown, the rose blossoms gone, the truest-purple lavender stalks nothing but dried up seed shakers. It's okay. Deep summer will bring other things, like crocosmia and ripened tomatoes and such. For now, though, I'm trying to spend all my spare time (Cougs has set the example—see above) simply lounging about in sun-dappled garden shades.