Rhubarb people

No one is interested in heirloom rhubarb, if there is such a thing. Rhubarb is itself: Rhubarb. Those who like it: do. Those who don't: don't. It's a little like brussels sprouts... another thing the heirloom market has not caught on to. Good thing, I say.

I used to receive

Catalogs in the mail,

Now it is emails:

Heirloom seeds to grow:

Heirloom tomatoes

Miniature cucumbers

No one on my block

Has ever grown.

I have not planted a garden

In three years.

I leave it to the perennials

To show themselves

Or not;

The volunteer bee balm

That arrived

Last year.

The rhubarb comes up

Every year

Demands to be harvested,

Given away

To rhubarb people.

Rhubarb people

Are not easy to determine

They are the ones

Hidden under the rhubarb leaves.

When I harvest

There they are

Waiting.

Early enough

A hummingbird AND a tree full of cedar waxwings.  Who knew there would be such a reward for getting up early this morning?

I got up early enough

To witness the hummingbird

In the bee balm,

My first hummingbird

Of the year.

Then

As if to say

See what you miss

By sleeping later

The mountain ash filled

Momentarily

With cedar waxwings.

Now there is one lone robin

At the very top

Of the mountain ash.

He is

Silent in the sun.

So much promise

I see bee balm next to thistles.  My backyard is not exactly orderly.  Neither, I think, is the Kingdom in which we live.  I am grateful to Robin Currie for her sermon yesterday on the Sower and the Seed.

Rain is promised

For this week

Yet sun still appears

In patches

For short moments

Then disappears

So the promise

May be fulfilled.

I understand

The corn grows higher

This year

In the fields

Of southern Illinois.

My backyard entertains

Bee balm

Next to thistles

So many seeds sown

So much growth

So much rain

So much sun

So much promise.

Bright pink

Amazing to me what brings back memories.  Sometimes it's just a particular color.

Bee balm

Bright pink as the color

Of my favorite summer dress

Age 6.

I wore it

To the San Diego Zoo.

I remember the tigers

The California cousins

My bright pink dress

Just like the bee balm blooming

Next to the backyard fountain

With two children

Holding an umbrella.

The backyard fountain,

Now a planter

With marigolds and celosia,

Even amaranthus

And next to it,

Blooming,

Bright pink bee balm

The exact same color

As my favorite summer dress

Age 6.

Bee Balm

Yeah!  I knew there was a reason I let those vaguely familiar plants grow.  I originally thought they were successors to the Echinacea I planted three years ago.  Nope.  It seems the soil, that particular spot,  is perfect for bee balm, something I never planted to begin with.  Not my original idea, but perfect in its own right.  And the ID?  Thanks, Mom.

The plants

Were vaguely familiar

So I let them grow.

Secretly I hoped

For Echinacea

Purple coneflowers.

When they bloomed

They said

Look us up

It will be worth your while

To let us grow.

I knew I*d seen the flowers

Somewhere.

Somewhere in my head

The word Monarda bloomed.

I think my mother has returned

To help the garden along.

She aids the burgeoning bee balm,

Gives it the proper Latin name

In my head

So I can look it up

On Google.