by Greyson Keller
President of The Garden Group, Inc. & Landscape Designer at Studio Viburnum
Beneath the boughs where lilacs lean,
The garden wakes in gold and green.
Soft tendrils twist, the light’s embrace,
A dance of life in time and space.
The table’s set with fruits and wine,
A feast where smiles spread like vine.
Sweet berries burst, the glasses gleam,
An ephemeral joy, a summer dream.
Yet into the wood, where shadows stay,
A lone oak bows, the branches sway.
The earth holds names in the hardened clay,
A hush of love that will not fray.
Lupin laughs where poppies sleep,
Their roots run silent, dark and deep.
But petals, bright, like torches burn,
A blossom for those who won’t return.
So here we stand, between the two,
Where roses rise and echoes strew.
To taste, to toast, to touch the past,
To plant a love that still holds fast.
For gardens grow in grief and glee,
A braid of loss and revelry.
Between the blossom and the stone,
We find the space to call our own.
As the long, sun-drenched days of late spring stretch across Nantucket, the island hums with the energy of change. The wind, softer now, carries the scent of salt and lilac, the ocean glints under a sapphire sky, and the islanders and visitors alike turn their attention to two distinct yet intertwined celebrations: the indulgence of the Nantucket Wine & Food Festival and the solemn reflection of Memorial Day. These twin pillars of the season, one brimming with the joy of taste and tradition, the other steeped in the quiet reverence of remembrance, ask us to embrace life’s beautiful contradictions. How do we balance celebration with honoring the past? Perhaps, as with all things on this storied island, the answer lies in the land itself. Our gardens, whether brimming with heirloom vegetables or wild with native blooms, are a reflection of this delicate dance, offering us both sustenance and symbolism, abundance and solace.
Spring’s grand finale is here, and in the kitchen garden the season’s generosity is on full display. This is a time of reward, when the tender work of early spring planting unfurls into vibrant greens, crisp radishes, and fragrant herbs. The first strawberries, blushing and sweet, hint at the decadence of summer just ahead. Each morning, the garden greets the day with something new to offer, a steady rhythm of growth and giving.
Food, at its best, is an act of connection, a bridge between earth and table, past and present. In the kitchen garden, this connection comes alive. Asparagus spears, once mere whispers poking through the soil, now stand tall, ready for roasting, grilling, or shaving raw into a bright salad. Mint, wild with exuberance, begs to be muddled into cocktails, steeped in tea or leading the orchestra as the conductor of curry. The season’s first strawberries taste like a memory, a reminder of childhood summers, of fingers stained red from picking, of sugarsprinkled shortcakes eaten on a sun-warmed porch. They pair effortlessly with the festivities of the moment, starring in tarts, tossed into salads, or served simply in a flute of chilled rosé. Even in the midst of plenty, the wise gardener is always looking ahead. With summer’s heat on the horizon, now is the time to plant the crops that will carry us forward: tomatoes, their vines eager to climb; peppers, promising bursts of spice and sweetness; basil, the fragrant companion that turns any meal into a masterpiece. This is the rhythm of the garden and of life itself— harvesting the gifts of the present while tending to the future.
In a place like Nantucket, where history lingers in every salt-weathered shingle and cobblestone street, the past is never far from the present. Memorial Day invites us to honor those who came before, to reflect on the sacrifices made, the stories told and untold. Food, too, can be an act of remembrance. Heirloom vegetables, passed down through generations, hold the flavors of history. A wellloved family recipe, perhaps a humble clam chowder, rich with tradition, becomes more than just sustenance—it becomes a tribute. As we gather for Memorial Day meals, let us weave this reverence into our feasts. Let us toast not only to the season’s bounty but to the hands that have worked the soil before us, the lives that have shaped our present.
As May deepens into June, the garden transitions. Early bloomers bow out, their petals returning to the earth, making way for the next wave of color. This is the time for thoughtful tending, cutting back spent blooms, pulling weeds that threaten to overtake the wild natives, and preparing the soil for summer’s heat.
Beyond the cultivated rows of the kitchen garden, another kind of beauty unfolds, one wilder, quieter, yet no less meaningful. The native garden, a tapestry of island flora, thrives in its own rhythm, unbothered by trends or the demands of harvest. This is a place of deep-rooted wisdom, a landscape that has witnessed centuries of shifting tides and changing hands. Blue flag iris unfurls its violet banners along pond edges, a regal presence in the landscape. Wild lupine, with its spires of lavender and blue, draws in pollinators, a symphony of buzzing gratitude. Baptisia, the humble yet hardy indigo plant, bursts into bloom, a reminder that beauty often thrives in resilience.
Memorial Day calls for quiet moments, for places of pause. The native garden offers these naturally: a shaded bench beneath an Eastern Redbud, a winding path lined with Carex and wild Geranium, a small patch of earth where a loved one’s favorite flower returns year after year. In these spaces, moments become memories and remembrance takes root. We gather not only in cemeteries and at monuments but in the landscapes that hold meaning, in the gardens where stories are sung by the birds and hummed by the bees. Life is, at its core, a balancing act, a dance between joy and grief, past and present, abundance and loss.
On Nantucket, where the ocean itself mirrors the constant ebb and flow of time, we are reminded that both celebration and reflection are essential. There is no contradiction in raising a glass of wine while holding space for remembrance. Just as the garden thrives on both sun and shade, we, too, are shaped by both the light and the losses in our lives. A garden party can coexist with a moment of silence. A feast can be infused with gratitude. This is the gift of the season, the ability to hold both joy and reverence in the same hands, to celebrate while honoring, to remember while living fully.
As we move through this late spring, let us gather with intention. Let us share meals that nourish not only our bodies but our souls. Let us cook with heirloom ingredients, drink wines that tell stories, and plant flowers that will bloom for those who come after us. Let us embrace this season in all its fullness, the flavors, the flowers, the laughter, the quiet.
The gardens of Nantucket, whether filled with tomatoes and basil or wild with native grasses, teach us how to navigate this delicate balance. They remind us to savor the fleeting, to honor the lasting, and to trust in the cycles that carry us forward. As the long days stretch toward summer, let us walk through our gardens with gratitude. Let us taste the sweetness of the season and remember those who made it possible. Let us celebrate, and let us honor.
Because, in the end, this is what it means to be truly alive.
