Pollination or love at Springtime.

fredhatt.com

There they are sitting on the porch feasting on sunbeams half-wild, pollinated and almost abandoned.

Spring is covering everything with her yellow dust.  She has every plant in sight growing as if today is their last day of sunlight.  I have been working like a mad woman, washing walls, cleaning railings and scrubbing screens.  Even so, my porch is not a garden.  My porch is uninhabited.  Wherever I stand or sit down to rest, spring reminds me that summer is coming.  She keeps dumping that sallow powder in my hair and on my chair.

This time around, the realization of a porch garden has been a lesson in delayed gratification.  Its completion is an act of love, a pleasure, a luxury.  Yet I feel overwhelmed and almost beaten.  I am anxious.  It seems like the first time just happened, but every mother knows that that is not so.  I have simply forgotten.  Carefully I press on, working on my porch garden, hoping that it will be full of plants before spring exhales her last breath and summer inhales it.

The plants are out of place, pots upon pots and potting soil, my family is put out of place.  We have a house full of guests; they sit in all the sunniest spots.  It is just like a delay at an airport around Christmas, time.  They should only have been passing through yet here they are.  A big beauteous mess of freshness greeting you every time you pass by.  Egg box seedlings, houseplants, sun lovers, herbs and vegetable plants are everywhere.  New slips and old slips some with roots and others without.  The connecting flight to destination unfinished is me.  They are all waiting for me to open the back door to the Porch Garden.

Yes, I am quite aware.  This is my idea, my space, my air.