Saturday, I chose to turn off the alarm and sleep as long as dreams would keep me.
I surrendered into the daylight right after it arrived. Instead of rising at 5:00 I snoozed
and sank back into my jumbled, confusing mind trips until six. I loved the weekend days so
there was little chance of sleeping longer. I heard the first cry of the white wing dove, cooing to the dawn and her tribe. This was a signal to me that I should start my day.
The day dawned with a grey and overcast sky. Rain never dampens the spirits of people who have been living in drought for years; living in drought and determined to garden.
Thin nightgown clad and ever-present summer foot wear- my favorite leather sandals, I slipped from the house into the garden…past the lime trees and budding datura plants, past the first bunch of this winter’s onion crop, resting in the remains of the greenhouse, now being disassembled to free up additional space for plants on the small postage stamp concrete patio. The scent of roses beckons.
The fragrance of the remains of the chinaberry tree we aided in executing this past winter…now burst into what may be its last gasp of survival; this smell competes with the roses at the end of the house for olfactory enticement. I inhale the smells of Spring.
I check the corn for new growth, tomatoes for baby fruit and pluck early sweet peas from their trellis…popping one into my mouth and savoring its freshness.
One the way back into the house, I snip several especially pretty roses for Romeo. I smile.
Back inside, I realized I have been outside almost an hour watching the play of birds and admiring our simple backyard garden. I put on a pot of special, dark-roast coffee, knowing the smell would awaken my sleeping Prince.
Weekends are delightful, even when ordinary.