I was away for a week and came back to find the crocosmia not only in bloom but flagrantly man-spreading all over the porch and the rose bush next to it, the weight of its beauty pulling the fronds over.
After months of sodden grey in the Pacific Northwest, it can be something akin to hallucination to suddenly come upon a purple crocus poking out of the ground on a dog walk.
The damp and grey are so omnipresent that the quintessential Vancouver blog is called, "definitely raining" and this article from way back when describes PNW, "Rain [as] a signature. ''O! How horriable is the day,'' Lewis and Clark wrote of a typical winter afternoon on the Northwest coast in 1806. Tom Robbins, a Northwest novelist who has come up with as many ways to describe rain as Eskimos have to describe snow, once put it this way: ''The day was rumpled and dreary. It looked like Edgar Allan Poe's pajamas'' (and these last ones have been particularly so).
It is only by understanding how deep the grey is, how it just goes on and on in a way that prairie folk might describe the land, that you can feel the giddy joy at a yellow dandelion or the first seedlings, pushing out of the ground, still wearing the husks as hats. I laugh when I water them in the morning, then put on my wellies and splash around the block with the dogs, knowing that dry days are coming soon.
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
when the world is puddle-wonderful
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and