It’s an old house, but it’s ours now. Waking in my old bed to a new view, this garden full of old growth. Azaleas taller than I am, but we came in July and the blooms won’t come until February. I wonder what color they will be, and I look forward to February for the first time ever.
Two new bird feeders hang on the two old hooks that were already in the trees, and the old birdbath is clean and full of fresh water. Now there are new visitors to marvel over. A mated pair of chirping cardinals, a troop of warbling gnatcatchers, and the nearly silent tiny brown birds that scratch the ground around the starflowers.
I wonder if they are old visitors, glad someone new has come.
The garden is green, but I can name many of the plants and know they will flower. Cannas, azalea, lantana, king's mantle, trumpet. A dogwood that made me cry when I recognized the leaves. A fruiting orange tree. A garden made for butterflies and hummers, made for spring. A gift from the people before, more precious than anyone can know, except the lady who planted them. She knows.
I have planted new ones, pentas and passion flower vine, to host caterpillars for the butterflies that are frequent visitors and to fill in this long flowerless green spell.
I saw the first hummingbird last weekend, unexpected without blooms to draw them.
Maybe he remembers when the flowers were there.
Maybe he heard someone new had come…someone who filled the bath and the feeders, who was already digging in the soil, and putting down new roots.
Maybe he’d like a new friend.