"The Sky is Low..."

"The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

A traveling flake of snow

Across a barn or through a rut

Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all day

How some one treated him;

Nature, like us, is sometimes caught

Without her diadem.” (Emily Dickinson)

Laying low this weekend after a great youth retreat, I’m on a third cup of coffee, and my kids and I crowd close around the computer screen to watch a science dvd. We munch carrots, pop salted green edamame beans, and chew whole wheat cheese quesadillas (“Mom, whole wheat?! Really?”) while dog variants march across the screen. (“Okay, I’ll try not to buy whole wheat tortillas again.”) 

Later, my teens descend to their rooms for other school, and I ponder flower beds and perennial gardens. The plastic bucket of Shasta daisy roots in my garage languish from their planting delay, and I feverishly plot companion flowers and layouts. 

My borrowed garden books speak of the power of good companions who can bolster up sagging plants, hide unseemly roots, and add vivid color to those around them. The reference books speak of the need for lush fertile soil, enriched by compost and mulch -- treasured life-giving nutrients that spring up from the surrender of decay and death. Hearty life and color spring from old growth, from life surrendered, from the drab of former death. 

Grabbing my spade, the bucket of dead-looking Shasta daisy roots, some magenta corabells, and bags of daffodil, tulip, and crocus bulbs, I head out under a low grey sky. Pondering companion plants that add strength and beauty to each other, and the need for continually-enriched soil that gives life and heartiness, I plunge hands into cold dirt. 

Linking with Ann, I say, merci seigneur.