Two Bur Oaks and a Crawdad

A group of swamp white oaks Healthy soil is important, but for whom?  In the Garden  The young bur oak would not be kept down. Yet again it revealed itself among the standing dead stalks of a large patch of purple bee balm, a good three feet tall and leafing out. In spring, a bur oak’s leaves look like sharp-edged, glossy cutouts. They are not green, but shade delicately among soft corals, tans and pinks. The green comes a bit later, like a slow-motion wave gently pervading each leathery leaf. The question, as it had been for several years, was what to do with this young newcomer to the garden.  About ten feet away and across the walk from house to garage stands a second bur oak that I’d started from an acorn some twelve years ago. I’ve enjoyed watching it grow its first sets of true leaves, become large enough to attract birds and then mature enough to bear acorns. This winter I limbed it up three feet from the ground, mainly to give the sedges and wild geraniums growing underneath a

Meteorological Winter


Sleeping In

I turned over my pillow and
went off to sleep again; finally I
turned over and stretched out;
the papered windows are bright,
so I know morning is here, yet
I stay in bed because my quilt
is as warm as spring;
do not stop me from being lazy!
Better to comfort me with
pleasant words; outside the cock crows
but I continue to sleep, no longer
emulating those who
attend early court.

(Imperial audiences were held before sunrise. Translation, Rewi Alley)

"Prairie" - Karen Hanmer
So wrote Tang Dynasty poet Bai Juyi sometime in the early 800s. I woke thinking of that poem yesterday, the first day of meteorological winter. Cold weather has finally arrived for real, and we keep our house cool, especially at night: how I love the warmth under my quilt, how loath to emerge in the chilly gray morning!

I can lie there feeling satisfied about the completion of fall garden tasks. Herbs harvested and frozen, and pesto made; a few jars of homemade jam placed on the shelf; seeds collected and saved; compost spread on the raspberry and rhubarb beds; leaves raked and either spread in the beds along the fence or composted; bean and morning glory vines pulled down and composted; one last weeding done; containers divested of their annuals (composted) and brought in the basement; the compost heap turned one last time. Other than some annual herbs cut after the first hard frost, I’ll wait until early spring to cut down anything else, so the garden looks like the season, full of russets and golds which will fade into browns and tans as winter progresses. Satisfied to let things be.

Starting out through the garden on a morning walk, I hear a downy woodpecker singing an it’s-a-good-day song, and spot it high up, traversing the rough-barked trunk of the silver maple across the alley; as I crane my head back to look, I notice two red tailed hawks higher above, heading north on business.

I give thanks for the non-human members of our biotic community who grace us with their presence; who, simply by living their lives, help make the earth a fit place to live, for themselves and for us.

Related Posts:
Blooms Day Since 1904
National Poetry Month in the Garden

Comments

Anonymous said…
I always find a treasure of some kind in your blog. You are a human part of the world that helps make it a fit place to live, too.
MRG