May 30, 2011

Memorial Day. Sweet summer. Everything in the garden is as tall as I. The scarlet poppies bloom at my nipples. Two wonderful surprises at morning inspection: first, that the expensive Japanese cobra lily did indeed germinate and now puts forth a cup of creamy white; and second, that the angel’s trumpet did reseed itself. There’s a tangle of infants at the rim of the terrace, which I have not yet developed the cold-bloodedness to thin.

Picnic and J & L’s, with the usual suspects. Mild yet inexplicable panic sitting there among durable friends. What was with that? Part of it was M, of whom I was weary unto death, who seemed to have gone away but never quite goes away. Those you love pass through for a season and disappear. Those you endure, endure.