Glass of lemonade in hand, a fan buzzing nearby - it got pretty darn warm here today. Maybe Summer is nodding at Spring and saying the jig is up, you've fooled around acting like Winter for far too long! If I had my druthers the sunny, yet mild days would stick around for another month. Because in that short, sweet-spot the garden is perfection. I can conjure Monet sitting astride a tiny camp stool, paintbrush stroking purple and yellow swaths of iris spires. Majestic beauties, they!
And when I wander the garden and witness all that is new these fragrant, colorful bearded flowers give me pause to remember my long-passed Aunt. The beds beneath our plum trees are filled with iris straight from her garden. She was quite the quirky character; loved nonetheless. She tended her garden with devotion and long days of toil. I wish Monet could've painted her iris garden - better yet, I wish that I could have! Alas, I am not an artist of that ilk. So I have no permanent memento hanging upon a wall, but the annual bloom in Spring is one of life's best works of art!
I Remember, Aunt Lorraine!