Although we have been privileged to enjoy very mild temperatures for late June – no triple digits yet! – there’s been rain on and off, and the humidity has made it feel as if all the oxygen has been removed from the atmosphere. When the air is still, it is eerily still, quiet like those New England nights when snow is fluffing and drifting down in huge flakes. No one hurries.
It’s a good time to sit three feet from a cold-blooded garden visitor and snap away to my heart’s content. Continue reading
I could never in a million years be a good news reporter, or a halfway decent critic of social enterprises: I am just too shy.
In my imagination, real gardeners are always busy.
I’ve been rereading My Wars Are Laid Away in Books, Alfred Habegger’s biography of Emily Dickinson, and I’ve come to a startling and delightful conclusion: if she were alive today, Emily Dickinson would be a blogger.
It isn’t generally fashionable to admit a fondness for Edna St. Vincent Millay, but I confess to it. Every semester I recite “Love is not all” to every one of my classes on the day we talk about love, and I think most of my students are surprised that a sonnet can sound like that. Like regular spoken language. I don’t think they’d realized, either, that Romeo and Juliet spoke to each other in sonnets. Ah, well.