Trying to clear the bed to plant the potted blueberries, all root-bound budding craving space, the unfamiliar sunshine made me slothy and sleepy. I pulled weeds and walked across the yard to the bin and back again, wandering away to study shoots of hollyhock. There was no hurry. Soft in the air, the first time since September, squinting into the sun.
The plum blossoms shine, when a week before they mingled with snow. The plum tree grows out on the common verge, tame once, now gone feral. In August, I picked the hard red plums, the ones I could reach from the ground, and mulched them with vinegar to brew a shrub syrup from the fruit.
“–Say it, no ideas but in things—”
Is every woman a flower? Each man a city?
No, I think, though I do love the plums* and the blushing tree, I do not concur. Unlike the poet Williams, I suppose each woman rather the river falls above the city, uncompromising, “a recoil of spray and rainbow mists” her Ideas in the sensing of things.
*This Is Just To Say
I have eaten
that were in
you were probably
they were delicious
and so cold
—William Carlos Williams,