May 23, 2010

A date, May 23, that is always significant to me. I don’t know why. I think it was when the forest wildflowers were in full and extreme bloom in Ohio, a day set aside for joy.

Rose in darkness and before full dawn (which happens even now) I had planted angels’ trumpets and Jupiter’s beard. The city finally hauled away my brush pile, and the angels’ trumpets are the second step toward aesthetic reclamation. The lady at the farmers’ market warned me that every part of the angels’ trumpets is poisonous. Good, I thought wickedly to myself. Now to shower and go to church, an anti-climax if today were anything other than Pentecost.