Wednesday, March 02, 2005


Seeing the sun all dressed in new green on the mountains in the morning and hearing the manically exuberant warbler echoing my own exultings, lifting the morning up out of the dark by sheer strength of song, and the hawks in love in and with the vast blue pearl of the sky, and the crow with his eye on my any-day-now bean shoots, and my finger-rooted arms moving rocks into walls and stringing up cedar fences, and watering, digging, enriching, harvesting - so becoming more and more the place I live - and in the long pauses to drink it all in I imagine sampling the radishes with their satisfying crunch like the very lettuce itself, or the rainbow chard; the texture, the spunk of life on the transition, the change from leaf to man to earth and back again and so on and around into a son and a daughter and another son and the moon in new eyes, and arms and hands digging and planting soon to be tomatoes and herbs and cucumbers born out of the fertile past.

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