On the road, the notion of time evaporates so quickly, I have to stop and think to know what day it is, and even then I’m not quite sure. A minute, mile, or hour farther on, the fact is gone again, along with its meaning and its need.
We left on Monday. That much I know. But I hardly prize the information.
If today is Thursday, the name is the quaint result of repeated examination.
What is early, what is late, in the presence of a waterfall?
At Burney Falls, in California, a large group of women visiting from China clambered down the rocks into a cloud of mist. After finding places to sit, each opened like a flower.
At Mt. Lassen, on our way down, at 8,500 feet, we met a couple well into their eighties, on their way up. Members of their family were near, but not too near, with a good many yards between them.
At 9,500 feet, swept down around a bend in the path, we were met by a snowflake wave of tortoise shell butterflies.
And all along the way, for each flower, there was a bee.
August 8, 2019
And Here I Sit Without a Flower
And here I sit without a flower,
an hour gone or more, when a bee lands
on petal hands I did not have
Recently Banned Literature, September 19, 2016
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