May 10, 2020

So through the night Young Aengus walked the perimeters of the garden, steam rolling from his shoulders, and when I rose not one blade of tender seedling was lost.

Today may be a backstep. I was tireder than yesterday, napped longer, maybe felt ouchier, not by much, but enough to irritate the spirit in me that want to be moving perpetually forward. I walk around, but it’s like having a bag of tepid water attached to your leg that you’re afraid to touch to anything lest it burst. Constant little throb as though the bag were on fire. Maybe this is simply one of those days in rotation when I am especially sick of the quarantine. Two days ago I made this hamburger onion thing, but it is too substantial for me ever to get more than a few spoonfuls down. Water, oddly, upsets my stomach. Chopped bamboo. Sat on the porch and watched thrushes any jays snap up the proffered peanuts.

Not a petal perished, Polar Vortex.