Devonne Brown

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Being home in my forest among my flowers allows me to be me. The old people said “tending violets cures melancholy.” There’s something about digging in dirt to plant my begonias and impatiens that does the same thing. It restores my soul from working all fall and winter.

Every morning of summer break I go outside to see what’s growing. The wildflowers I’ve planted won’t grow in the shade, but the oranges, reds, and fuchsia colored petals of the impatiens glisten with dew in the mornings. The green dragon wings try to hide their soft blooms, but can’t. Their red blossoms show off anyway, and the coral bells, purple leaf wonders thrive in dappled bright sunshine. Everything gets bigger everyday.

At the base of the tree they grow beside Frank, the statue of St. Francis of Assisi, friend of living things. Big Blue, the hosta is massive, as is the fern I transplanted years ago. Both need to be divided and planted along the path fashioned by fallen oak limbs. I won’t disrupt them until late summer. 

Although my house is old and in need of repair, the garden, sloping downward and fenced from the deer, takes me away from the melancholy that the house, and working at school tend to bring.

I love being home, even when the house is dusty and messy from weeks of just being here, no one tells me what I must do. I have no schedule except for what the cats impose upon me. I forgive their demands. 

Today through August, life is good.

Home with the flowers

Melancholy goes away

I am free to be