Dark, rich, thick, smooth — a not-quite-full six-ounce cup of pour-over coffee. Dream coffee, slowly consumed. Coffee in the bright light shadow of a setting full moon.
The fir tree has a very heavy new crop of green pitch-glistening cones, which, as they mature, are shedding bits of themselves. When I was working under it the pieces fell around me and on me.
The garden is engulfed in purslane, which I’m letting grow wild. There are zinnias where three plants died early on, surrounded by cucumbers and tomatoes. The sunflowers look like a prehistoric forest. They can be seen from well down the street. Walkers pause by them; through the open window, hidden by the cedar, I can hear them converse.
Cultivation and preservation are words indicative of how we view nature and ourselves, and, perhaps, of the degree to which we’ve become strangers here, in our very own home.
It isn’t space alone one needs, but to be an offering, and to let oneself grow. What good is any space if it’s thought of only as property or real estate, to be bought and sold, used and filled?
August 11, 2022
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Categories: A Few More Scratches