Evening in the garden...

As I sat on the slate trail in the garden this evening, I felt myself being blinked at. Someone was watching me. Looking around I found the little fellow in these photographs a few inches from my leg, dusty and holding very still, and blinking tiny black eyes. Just to be absurd, let's call him Picasso the Painted Turtle (naming the visitors to our yard is a tradition with me and my children.) Haiku carried him down to the edge of the pond where he can wash the dust from his shell.

Seven year old Sijo took the photo of the turtle in Haiku's hand. It is a bit blurry, but gives you a good idea of the size of this tiny turtle.

photos 1) by Haiku, baby painted turtle crawling up from the creek bank into the butterfly garden 2) by Sijo, turtle in Haiku's hand

Silent Grace...

The first tiny blossoms of my perennial forget-me-not (Heart-leaf Brunnera) bloomed today. This plant will be lush with blossoms over the next few weeks, but none will thrill my heart as did these first two blooms today. That touch of tender blue, like the summer sky that I am dreaming of, is so encouraging on a day that offered both April sunshine and April showers.

I found the old-fashioned poem written by a Canadian Poet about forget-me-nots, in an era when the language of flowers was symbolic and meaningful to lovers and romantics, as well gardeners. As the poet says, "Ah! every blossom hath a tale, with silent grace to tell." Over and over again, that silent grace beckons me into the garden, calms and renews me, and connects me to the earth.

Forget-Me-Not

Could every blossom find a voice
And sing a strain to me,
I know where I would place my choice,
Which my delight should be.
I would not choose the lily tall,
The rose from musky grot,
But I would still my minstrel call
The blue Forget-me-not.

And I on mossy bank would lie,
Of brooklet, rippling clear;
And she of the sweet, azure eye,
Close at my listening ear,
Should sing into my soul a strain
Might never be forgot,
So rich with joy, so rich with pain--
The blue Forget-me-not.

Ah! every blossom hath a tale,
With silent grace to tell,
From rose that reddens to the gale
To modest heather-bell;
But oh! the flower in every heart
That finds a sacred spot
To bloom, with azure leaves apart,
Is the Forget-me-not.

Love plucks it from the mosses green
When parting hours are high,
And places it Love's palms between
With many an ardent sigh;
And bluely up from grassy graves
In some loved churchyard spot
It glances tenderly and waves--
The dear Forget-me-not.

by Crawford, Isabella Valancy (1850-1887)
Poem is in the public domain..

photo by Aisling, April 28, 2007; perennial forget-me-nots