Lemon balm, coming up fresh at the base of a plant in the small herb garden.
The weather is still so mild for December that on Sunday I found myself wondering if it would be timely to do a bit of weeding and moving things about in my perennial beds.
I decided against this as the ground is too damp and chilly.
Poking about in the herb garden near the carport I noticed these new leaves on the lemon balm.
As I brushed twigs and faded maple leaves away I pondered why this has been for so many years
a favorite plant.
The delicate lemon scent is a big part of the appeal. The leaves have a delightful crinkled texture and the green is a fresh and appealing color.
More than that, I can only explain my attachment as something my rather whimsical imagination conjures.
Going down on my knees to weed and tend a clump of lemon balm, immediately gives me a sense of connectedness to something very old, as though I had been whisked off to a medieval herb garden or to Brother Cadfael's workshop.
When we moved to this small Kentucky farm, the first springtime was a time of happy discoveries, for the former owners had been gardeners.
I found a clump or two of lemon balm emerging in the section where iris roots jostled each other for space.
I soon picked out the familiar rumpled leaves of several more plants nestled in the thick grass near the overgrown bulb bed. I removed them tenderly, placing several in a partially shaded strip near the garage.
Lemon balm is a companionable plant, well worth the moment it takes to stop and ruffle the stems to release the fragrance or to snip off a leaf or two to sniff.
Rain held off on Sunday, but the wind blew steadily.
A load of laundry flapped itself dry on the clothesline.
The cats were terribly inspired. They collided with each other rushing in and out of the sliding door to their yard, whirled in to skitter across the hardwood floors, tails puffed, nails clicking as they
careened around corners.
Generations of my cats have done this, where-ever we have lived--ushering in changes of weather, possessed by wildness.
Rain began sometime before daylight Monday morning. The air was warm and heavy with mist.
We spotted these turkeys striding across the upper pastture toward the woods.
I used the zoom on the camera to capture their leggy progress.
Wilbur remains very leary of humans. His sister, Willow, has settled into domesticity and has accepted humans as a welcome part of her life. While Willow knows how to charm, Wilbur seems to regard us as a threat to his very existence. It it rare to surprise him into being picked up. I caught him on Sunday and asked J. to take this photo.
When we can corner him we talk to him cajolingly, stroke his tabby coat, hold him on our laps.
Thus far he refuses to be won over. He eyes us warily, poised to run. He doesn't purr. He holds his ears in a horizontal mode of displeasure.