The child’s wonder
At the old moon
Comes back nightly.
She points her finger
To the far silent yellow thing
Shining through the branches
Filtering on the leaves a golden sand,
Crying with her little tongue, “See the moon!”
And in her bed fading to sleep
With babblings of the moon on her little mouth.
Friday afternoon off, and we were acting like a pair of twelve-year olds.
“What should we do?”
“I dunno, what do you want to do?”
“I have no idea, you think of something.”
After ruling out three different options which included spending money, the possibility of having to deal with teenagers, or driving an hour, we decided to check out Breakheart Reservation in Saugus.
We were glad we did.
Breakheart has free parking, lots of clearly marked trails with varying levels terrain, and a paved loop that goes all the way around the reservation. There’s a small beach on the river, a fenced in off-leash area for dogs, picnic areas, clean restrooms, and a visitor’s center with free maps. There were people around, but it wasn’t too crowded. I’ve been meaning to visit for ages, and was glad we finally did. It was a great reminder that being outside is awesome.
It was the perfect thing to do on a summer afternoon.
I’ve been taking advantage of the cool weather by working in the jungle that is hiding my back yard.
I rather like the jungle in the spring – full of promise, arrogant green, the beginnings of something.
But then the bittersweet becomes very pushy, and the weeds careless, and the jungle is suddenly an unruly burden. By then, the bugs are voracious and the weather far too hot to do anything about it. Mr. P and I have decided that this is the year we are going to get our yard back.
This evening, sticking to my work-in-a-clockwise-direction-a-bit-at-a-time plan, I freed the peony from the crabgrass, whispered sweet nothings to my hydrangea that is clinging to life, cleared a path for my oxeye sunflowers to reach for the sky, and mulched in hopes I never have to weed again. Ever.
I worked until twilight, accompanied by a cheerful robin perched high above my head.
It was lovely.
They know, they just know where to grow, how to dupe you, and how to camouflage themselves among the perfectly respectable plants, they just know, and therefore, I’ve concluded weeds must have brains. ~Dianne Benson, Dirt, 1994