As my left foot began to touch the floor, I hesitated, repelled. My foot arched. I felt the start of a crunching sensation.Read More
Why is the day cold? Wool clothes are in a pile bound for the attic.
Why is the breeze warm warm? The firewood pile is high.
Why is rain falling? The firewood is uncovered.
Why is the sun setting? I have work yet to be done.
Why is the sun rising? I have yet to sleep well.
When will the moon cease chasing the sun.
Why do I have debts to pay? I want to play.
Why do I squint? I want to see.
Why does the seed grow? I want to know.
Her cart was in the middle of the aisle. Her boyfriend said ‘hi’ to me. I mumbled a reply, not even words, really. That cart was in my way. She stared at me. I navigated my cart between hers and the shelves. She did not move.
She was wiping down the gas pumps while I pumped gas. I said ‘hi’ just as squatted down to continue her work. She looked up, smiled, and asked how I was. An honest smile. I returned her smile with my own and wished I said hello while she was standing.
I had the expectation that she might not be friendly. She had disappeared when I entered the store. She was friendly. My hair was messy. Hers was not. We talked about wildflowers, clothing, Ocean City, Maryland, and paying the rent. She asked if the shopping was good in New Jersey. I said no. We both wished we had longer torsos.
At night, when we settle down to sleep, my son is not ready to sleep. Sometimes, I ask him a question, to focus his mind, and help his body let go of the day.
“What kind of farm animal would you chose to have?” I ask.
“A jaguar,” he replies.
I laugh and think of how I’d prefer a jaguar to a hog or a chicken or a horse.
“He could be best friends with Mountain*,” he adds. “And, protect him.”
This is a sight I see regularly when I check on the plants. This image is very different than those I present on my business’ website. As a photographer, I find this image interesting. As a native plant grower, this is the kind of image that gets cut.Read More
I had a premonition that the Marty’s Silver Dollar beer mug would be broken. It was. Just a couple days later. Today, broken. My son’s favorite glass, from one of my grandparents’ kitchens. Busted.
My son has moved on, it seems. I’m melancholy.
Long nights, short days.
Yesterday. My word. Yesterday was a day. After it was nearly all over, Jared and I drove out to pick up Beren, and I asked, “Was it just me? Or, was today crap?”
“Well,” he answered. “About seventy percent of the things we tried turned out badly.”
That’s a good batting average, but a crap day.
Quickie, shortie. That’s how I refer to… writing a short blog post. Like this one.
I am a cubicle worker. Maybe less than a cubicle worker. I have about, shoot, ask my husband, he does all the measuring especially once we get into the square and cubic measurements, but he’s not home… so, I got about this…Read More
As the drizzle picked up, so did my pace. My basket was filled with a meal’s worth of chickweed, field garlic, and a bit of cutleaf coneflower from down field. I came around the bend and up the hill. Jared and Beren stood before a nearly empty clothesline. As the drizzle picked up, so did their pace.Read More