Ruined Soil where the Hemlocks Lived

Sparrows on the side yard fence, one following the other. We say the maple leaves are green, yet how many greens?

It came to pass that I had to transform my life in radical ways, and this involved submission, obedience and willingness, which was why I had never done it before, and still had reservations, readily found distractions, to wit, this sentence.

A fantasy of becoming a rosary maker, sort of like my fantasy of becoming a clothespin maker, both of which reflect soft spaces in me worthy of honor and attention but let's face it, I'm not going to become a rosary maker. Shades of blue, and the way blue becomes purple when it risks pain.

Mergansers paddling upstream as we pass. My very first D&D character, forty some odd years ago, was a cleric named "Casavoie," after Casanova, so you know, a priest who fucked a lot, which was for so long my confused - I mean really really confused - strategy for navigating the social world.

Perhaps our lives are meant to be devoted to study, simply giving attention to what appears, radiant and lovely, rich and vivacious, better even than television. 

Owls hooting somewhere near the river, foxes coming halfway up the pasture before turning back. No fireflies yet but God willing, soon.

The side yard lilac blooms a little on its northernmost side, a triumph of some kind, a joy. First hummingbird of Spring, so we clean the feeders, set them up. 

Cleaning and oiling the cast iron pans, talking over plans for putting up zucchini and apple this year, anticipating heavy yields. Who's a good boy?

I rake the ruined soil where the hemlocks lived, spading and hoeing, gathering up the fallen bark and limbs, spreading fresh horse shit, thinking maybe bee balm, maybe forsythia, maybe both. Iced coffee in the nearby shade, then taking an ax to the fifty year old wooden chaise lounge that has at last outlived its usefulness. 

Frost's "Mending Wall," being the guy who is always saying between gritted teeth "that's not what he meant," and knowing that twenty-year-old me would be proud of fifty-four-year-old me, and also knowing that's not necessarily a good thing, but still, it's not what he fucking meant. 

Black bra straps.

Sophia tells a joke that begins, "if hummingbirds were men."

We kiss by the fire, second one of Spring, leaning into one another, and it makes me think of stars for some reason, intelligent stars who are happy we are kissing, and who burn a little brighter and lean over us, like ceremonial candles saying "yes - this is the way - yes."