The passing of the spring blooms feels like putting up Christmas. Summer perennials are not yet in full glory and my heart sighs as I clip back the dead.
How do I hold on to spring?
Our evening walks are sullied by the heaviness of the air and I. just. miss. the breeze. I don’t breathe as easy when she goes.
I wait for the cool.
The stars come early and the moon lingers long and I sit still under the night canopy. The scent of honeysuckle drifts on night mist. The fireflies wink at me in the dark. I am aglow with living starlight.
Summer is coming.
And though the season of sunshine has its own joys, I will miss the whispers of new life—the budding out of trees and babes in the nest and bushes alive with color—that awaken new life in me.
So I bottle up spring.
I gather the last weeping petals of my peonies, still heavy with scent. The fingers of the blooms have lost their luster. Like an old woman they fold over, spot…sag.
But the scent…it still intoxicates.
The recipe is for rosewater, but these? Heavenly.
The petals wait. I dip my hands in the bowl time and time again–letting remnants of scent saturate my skin–lost in silk.
I place a bowl in the middle of a large pot—for catching the precious drops of scented dew. The petals embrace the bowl in the bottom of my dutch oven. I pour water over their delicate white. The lid is put on upside down. As the water gently boils and then simmers, spring fills my home again. It’s better than any potpourri created. The upside down lid gently channels drops of condensation into the bowl.
After a couple hours, I have spring in a jar.
Each morning and evening, my skin is kissed with peony.
And spring returns.