On Saturday, I went on a private-garden tour sponsored by The Garden Conservancy in Provincetown. At the first, I was struck by the pink poppies which resembled ballet dancers in layers of papery silk.
Or saucers and cups meant for woodland, or maybe meadow, fairies.
They ruffled in the wind, like peacocks wafting tail feathers.
In another garden, I came across giant bread seed poppies, tall splashes of color growing up through curling spires of digitalis.
Further in, up a path, a gate lead into another world.
To a place where imagination and quiet is invited in, and a person, if inclined, could put pen to paper. Tennessee Williams did here, once, entering through the yellow door.
I travel quite a distant to go to my bank branch. I could go to the one in town, but then I would not get to see this:
The view from my local post office parking lot is also pretty good; Edward Hopper painted it and the postal service put it on a stamp.
All in all, the days are good.
Yes, cars still pass me to take immediate right turns, and a mad neighbor stalks the place like a Hollywood prophet, pulling out my plants and leaving them on my doorstep like a cat might with a mouse, and soon, I won’t be able to walk in town for the crowds. At Stanford, a judge practically pardons a rapist by inferring boys will be boys, defying the jury’s verdict of guilty and The Onion publishes a biting satire. The republican ridicule mobile continues, and really, all is not well in the world.
Nature, that ceaseless worker, provides us beauty, as if to say, humans, pay attention. A fine wind rustles the leaves and the air has that late afternoon chill of early June. The sun will set, the sun will rise.