The lenten rose, or hellebore, is one of my favorite flowers of early spring. Compared to the ephemerals, it is so lush, so dense, so long-lasting. The buds appear alongside the snowdrops, but the blooms linger until summer heat withers them, often into early July. Some lenten roses are a deep maroon; others a pale and mysterious green.

But of course nothing compares to the scylla, which runs rampant among the roots and stones. It spreads gloriously, a blanket of blue stars, and then, just as suddenly, vanishes.

And yet the crocuses . . . the white ones, especially, break my heart with beauty. That pure glimmer at dusk, and at noon the golden center of all things . . .

***

We've got rain coming in today, but not until late afternoon, so maybe T can get the new garden boxes installed after all. I spent an hour yesterday working in the vegetable beds, clearing leaves and weeds, cultivating, mixing in wood ash, pruning back the perennial herbs. Still, there will be no planting until the soil for the new boxes is delivered--not for a couple of weeks yet. It's just as well: I'm always trying to jump the gun, always trying to rush the season. But we're not bereft of harvest: the transplanted spinach seems to be hanging on, chives are ready for a first cutting, and I've filled vases with the first flowers of spring.

Today I'll be reading at the South Portland Library, but otherwise the weekend will be quiet. Then next weekend we're heading to the island, the following weekend I'll be teaching, the weekend after that I'll be embroiled in various Plunkett Festival activities. I've got a stack of looming editing projects, student work to wrangle, a week peppered with travel and meetings . . . so forgive me my flower portraits. The blossoms steady me, somehow. All they require is that I love them.

Last night for dinner I sautéed halibut steaks with lemon and green onions and served them alongside squares of polenta topped with a spoonful of fresh tomato sauce and a salad of sliced cucumbers and radishes in a light buttermilk dressing. It was a pretty meal on a plate, a pleasure to make and eat.

Gillian Welch sings, "Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind, sugar." The song is the saddest song.

Arcadia, 1939

Dawn Potter

Horse cropping grass under birch trees,
a canary-yellow tinker’s cart, rosy geraniums at the window,
shelf lined with the novels of Dickens—

warmth of bread baking, a cardinal alight in a branching
oak, white bed, linens floating in air, a table
laid in an arbor’s shade—

ironed napkins, bright forks, a flowered plate, a Victrola
scratching out a faded tune, tinny and bright,
a cow beyond the fence, pail foaming with milk—

summer dresses and straw hats and rubber boots
stained with pond mud, a cat washing on a stump,
and in the distance the voices of men, laughing, sweet and low—

scent of camp smoke, clank of pans, dishwater splashed
into a bed of sunflowers, a notebook, a pencil,
two fat candles and a sweater, for when the night draws close—

when two hands slip together beneath a blanket, when the stars rise
and the katydids hum and someone begins the story . . . slowly, slowly—
“Once, there was a woman who loved to be alive.”

[from Calendar (Deerbrook Editions, 2024)]