This is what I call weather. Sixty degrees, sunny, sky as clear blue as Mary's mantle. Thanks to Son and G/Son and my madcap friend R. and to the hours and hours and hours that I spent last Autumn, the yard clean-up this Spring consisted of about an hour of gathering sticks. I'm transplanting crocus and bluebells and daffs in Spring instead of July to accommodate the landscaping that's going on. Everything, from the lilacs to the Japanese Maples to the rhododendron to the day lilies to the azaleas to the hostas to the woad to the fig trees is budding, budding, budding.
The male cardinal keeps demanding more seed and my squirrels who should, by rights, be skin and bones, following an Autumn of NO acorns, are fat as pigs, sitting on the deck railing calmly opening the peanuts with their little fingers, scarfing the sunflower seeds, feasting on kernels of corn. They chuff and scold Miss Thing whenever she dares to venture onto the screen porch. She turns her nose up at them and heads back inside. "I didn't want to associate with riff raff, anyway."
If I can just eat breakfast out here for the next 7 months, I'm happy.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."