excuses, excuses

I wanted to go see Amy Goodman today. Really I did. But the sun had the audacity to shine the way Obama's flock has the audacity to hope.... unapologetically.

Time became a Twizzler and I became the midwife of the tender garden once again. I don't really think it needs me, the way a healthy baby doesn't really need a midwife. The Mother does though. Noone is really sure yet what the Father needs.

I am pretty sure my job is to eliminate all that is dead, and that I am to do this at just the right time. I am also to observe and take note of what has decided to return and what has not. Inventory. Two delphinium gone. One lupine. The annuals, of course, expected, but nonetheless. Tragedies all. In opposition- an abundance of yarrow, fleets of White Nancy, strawberries that have hopped their walls. I dabble in futility, trying to contain species within little rock circles.

I wanted to go see Amy Goodman. Really I did. But there was lasagne to be made and a flute to be played, stories to be read and flowers that were dead.