Spilled sweets

It has rained through the night and now the garden is fresh and wet, full of the scent of it.  Any breeze causes another shower to fall as the trees loosen their stored drops.  They look as fresh as someone after a shower, exuding clean, wet happiness.  The hosta leaves are holding the bigger treasures, round jewels you can see through.  The garden is full of sound as birds and insects celebrate, and you can sense the smell of watered soil underpinning all.  Some days the garden seems shut behind its own invisible walls, or maybe beyond mine.  But today it is open and invites you to enjoy its largesse and be watered yourself, along with the plants; you can be part of this community.

The air still holds the scents of blossom, now freshened by the smell of grass.  The scattered petals make patterns on the bench like spilled sweets, and I am attended by my dog on my left, hair curling with damp after her garden explorations, a slug on her back and little drops of water on her nose, and my cat on my right, sitting carefully in fluffy dryness.  The dandelion heads, though, have lost their fluffiness and are spheres of hair-gelled spikes. 

Today is my party day and I, too, have showered and sit here with clean body and wet hair in joyful anticipation.  I have watered all the plans and preparations, and now wait for the people to flower in random gatherings, dropping their petals like spilled sweets.