March 13, 2012


Old moon in his dome of mist.

Light-hearted dreams last night, I think, though they involved remembering every more complicated combinations for locks and cell phones, and the building of large sculptures out of stacked coins.

Father’s 93rd birthday.

Planted J R-E’s hyacinth in the ground, it having spent its first life on my mantel.

Spring. Weeded when I came home from school, in the fresh hour of twilight. I don’t remember planting blue hyacinth, but there they are, bursting indecently from the dirt, in bloom before they emerge. Uncovered the bloodroot patch, now fully, coolly aflame.

This is the aria the boy was singing at moonrise on Republic Street in Valletta:

Lascia la spina
cogli la rosa
tu vai cercando
il tuo dolor