When I cut off the old fronds of the ferns, mold is my reward. Later, I celebrate with double and triple sneezes, violent enough to rattle the dishes.
In the center of the mound, the new fronds are unfurling, prehistoric, hairy, and willing. I find treasure therein — needles, twigs, and shells; fir and filbert sprouts.
The Creeping Jenny is rampant under the white birch. If not trimmed a bit, it will choke the dew-tipped spires of the returning hosta and only slugs will enter its church.
Question my sanity, I’ll not be offended. Utter me stable, I’ll not be aggrieved. Say nothing as you pass, I’ll not cease listening.
When long ago
you imagined heaven,
was it anything
Songs and Letters, April 23, 2008
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