So odd how we keep expecting the world to make sense on our terms. It doesn’t, it won’t, it can’t.
And my seedlings are coming up in bright edible green clusters all across soggy egg boxes and tilthed seed trays and propped or tilted pots turned to the sun. Breakfast for the birds who love tender shoots. Who wouldn’t? But I persist and defy the feathered foragers because by mid-summer I want flourishing bushes of opal basil in purply black, three different kinds of wild peppery rocket, pungent feathery coriander, cherry tomatoes and pale yellow banana peppers well on their way.
The pleasure of reading Mary Oliver on dog love:
The Poetry Teacher
The university gave me a new, elegant
classroom to teach in. Only one thing,
they said. You can’t bring your dog.
It’s in my contract, I said. (I had
made sure of that.)
We bargained and I moved to an old
classroom in an old building. Propped
the door open. Kept a bowl of water
in the room. I could hear Ben among
other voices barking, howling in the
distance. Then they would all arrive—
Ben, his pals, maybe an unknown dog
or two, all of them thirsty and happy.
They drank, they flung themselves down
among the students. The students loved
it. They all wrote thirsty, happy poems.