After the rains

It would be like any other morning, except when the rains come: at dawn; drenching bouquet, opening sour earth and sweet-water sky.

I saw it over there yesterday, the anvilhead cloud, large flat-top cloud: Cumulonimbus incus; thunderstorm cloud; king of all clouds, rising high out of nowhere like the pillars of the earth of Utah; icebergs in the Arctic stream; now stately columns of air mass channelling then clinging to the ceiling of stratosphere high over Salmon Point.

Up there, in the medicine house of the heavens, the alchemy of streams and brooks, rivers and lakes are rendered into cold loose rain then tossed over all things living. Maybe its because it is as they say; maybe because of our body makeup of 90 per cent water that we feel it? The memory of streams and brooks, that is; and sloughs and rivers, there on our shoulders, spilling over cheek bones as we stare into breaking clouds; bringing comfort in the warm greyness of a late spring shower.

When was I working the grounds, yesterday in the swollen air? The cup-plants opening to the sky, the robins raucous; fiddlehead ferns yawned below the stretch of hardwood atop of the ridge; cattle lying under trees; waiting corn-shoots in the fields? They knew it would come; while I was uncertain.

There I was, hands with rigid Hillier clay, stone and wood; gentle memories of gardens past. And along the side-roads, lingering near ragged and forgotten foundations of once-homes, rise the lilac and hollyhock; iris and tiger lily; straggling-on from family gatherings; of decades past; wanting to re-live each spring in rain memory.

So this morning I garden in the drench, find peace in the drowsiness. Rain on steel roof. Mud-caked boots; scent of oilskin on coat and hat and hand brings me to a place of wonder. The promise of seedlings, the cutting back of old growth, transplant from here to over there: all of us replenished under anvil-head cloud. More certain in the cooperative clay; Then comes the warming sky and easy lakebreeze carrying a moment of pause.

All around; Greener than green, all adjectives aside the bees and swallows and me alive in the scent of it; shovel at my elbow, take a sip of tea then set it all down as the wall of stone takes shape; voice of a new garden. This will be my ‘jardin des réfuses’ I shout, ‘garden of the refused.’ Like the salons of Paris where the un-juried artists hang their work, I invite all the outcasts, plants banished from the manicure of perfect, close-shaven lawns and sod to assemble here with me. Hey you over there! Swamp Milkweed, Wild Chamomile, Bluestemmed Goldenrod and Yarrow. And you! Spotted Knapweed, Wild Lettuce, White Aster and Starflower. Rebels all; please enter my imperfect-perfect garden, my humble, un-shaven garden of grace so I may learn of you and you of me.

We’ll make it a place of untamed beauty, a shaggy oasis in a sea of polished grass, where every ladybug and worm and butterfly may laugh and rest. Un ‘jardin des réfuses’: here in the wildness of the soil, the truth of the seasons and the softness of the rain; we’ll wait: so I may learn of you and you may learn of me.

Just like I said, it could be like any other morning except when the rains come: at dawn, sour earth and sweet-water sky. They knew it would be here, while I was uncertain.