It has rained every day for the past week and a half, or more. There have been a few days of partial sun, but it never lasts for long. June, in New England, is the rainy season, after all. My Mother has always said that it doesn’t become real summer here until after July 4th. It’s true. April showers don’t bring universal May flowers.
Mama and I went out to the woods this morning. The rain let up for a while, consenting somewhat begrudgingly to a few foggy spatters of drizzle instead of a real shower. We took advantage of the relative lack of falling water while it lasted, and escaped with the dog and our cameras, out into the swimming silver air and the saturated forest.
Everything is either dark, dark brown, or dazzling, near blinding green. The trees are stained deepest mahogany, almost black, bark soaked through and dripping with cloud. The path is umber, russet, faint sienna with the fallen leaves of countless years, mouldering unhurriedly. Yet all around, above, beside, between the trees, the forest floor, the boughs, everything, all is green.
The endless rain has turned all to emerald. It bleeds, pooling, wet, color dripping from color, shading the ground, the branches, my hands and face, the very air. All is cloaked in the virescent glow of life piled on life, growing thicker, deeper, firmer. It is so far from the Fall, and there seems no death. Ferns grow up, covering the thick bed of leaves, knee-high and running, emerald and jade issuing from the earth, or leaking into it. The sky is saturated with it, the mist, hanging in sheets and swathes of veil and shroud, glimmers faint, the color of the ferns, the leaves above.
Small in all the green and brown, there is a spot of red–two–three. Wild strawberries the size of hazelnuts, huge and juicy, weeping their scent into the mist, whispering the faintest hint of a childhood left behind, summer days in a Meadow as big as the world, overflowing with Yavanna’s bounty. Beneath them, a young newt, still bright orange, compelled onward by internal compass, seeking some new place of water and life in which to grow up.
And to all this glory, this ache of the earth, this greening over of all that once was dead, as it cries onward, tearing at my heart and turning my hair to a tangle of raindrops and bits of twig, to all this that is good, I cling.