I fear I waited too long to take a photo of the Bohemian’s garden at the height of its verdant glory.

The beets have been pulled from one bed, the soil turned over. There will be no replanting. The sweet peas are beginning to droop on thinning vines. The bulk of their harvest, already done.

There was a time about two months ago, when our family would take our little baby chick, Merlin, into the garden. Let his small, fluffy-self wander through the maze of raised beds that housed so much potential. Tarragon was blooming, the beet starts were taking root. The volunteer tomatoes were a surprising experiment that needed a trellis, fast.

One month later, Merlin went missing, never to return, though the garden was lush with green foliage and budding broccoli. I told the Bohemian, it was the biggest, most beautiful garden of his, yet. We should take a picture.

At the time, I was busy taking photos. Feeling a surge of creativity flowing through words, images, sketches. Inspiration was everywhere and I was ripe to capture the beauty, often sharing it here in the Archives.

As for the garden, maybe somehow I thought it would look like that forever. So I never did take that shot.

And then things changed.

We found out we had to move. The cycle shifted.

And now, all creative forces are channeled to Craigslist’s long-term rental searches and crafting summarized snippets that start with “Island Family Seeks New Home on the North Shore…”

I leave the lobe of poetry and orient my brain to sorting Jeb’s room for our pending garage sale. Thirty-five stuffed animals are categorized with his given titles: “Keep”, “Give to F” (‘F’ being short for ‘Friend’), or “Sell”.

Rather than admiring the way the light beams on the blue pottery shards at the kitchen window, I look upon them with scrutiny, wondering if the prudent Bohemian will find them superfluous in the move.

I am not complaining. I am more noticing the cycles of life. Just as in the garden. There are times of fecund fullness and periods of dying off. Each phase leading to the next.

I am fascinated by my own ebbs and flows, seeing that my mind right now is absorbed in all things practical. So much so, that today’s post is free of images. Just words documenting my observations.

Yet the artist in me cannot let this piece end with only chores and lists-in-formation. The poetry lobe whispers from the backseat.

“Come on, tell them about that rising full moon at dusk. The color of cheddar cheese and bigger than the sun. How it seemed to rise out of the two-lane road as you and the Bohemian drove, side by side, salt-coated from your sunset swim. Go on, tell them.”

“How about the dolphins? Don’t forget to mention how before you sorted Jeb’s Legos you took a jar of chai and toasted bagels to the beach. Let the morning sun warm you. Gave yourself an hour to watch a pod of dolphins circling the bay. Cheered as you saw them spinning in free delight, mid-air. Don’t forget the dolphins.”

I guess that’s the beauty. All of these things of life – profound, mundane – mixed together in one big stew of poignant potency. Sorting the junk drawer and standing in awe at the moon.

Oh, ok, I’ll throw in an image (even if it is a repeat).