March 21, 2012

Spring, finally, officially as well as in truth. A break in the rain decreed that I would spend the day gardening. Leveled the land and set up three water gardens, the two old ones moved and replanted, and the new, colossal one set into place. I dumped last year’s water from the two old ones, and the smell was quite amazing. I was going to dive directly to “bad,” but it wasn’t. It wasn’t bad, just richly, overwhelmingly organic. Planted or replanted the water lilies and a water iris that looks promising–though if I had just looked at the picture rather than reading the label I would have called it pickerel weed. Planted eggplant, bluebells, primrose, may apple, bloodroot. But more than that I cleared out vast swathes of ground free of weeds and grass, ready for the gardener’s touch. Now, of course, I can scarcely move. It took the water striders one hour to find the water. How does that happen?

Revising Abbott’s Dance, I could hear the voices of the kids who did it at Siena and New York. It was a pleasure, a comfort. It was sad that we all lost touch. I wonder if they think of me as I do of them?