At times I am a stranger to myself. Looking at my body, I see an invention rather than a real person: foreign, other, unfamiliar. When I meet potential friends, my warmth is overwhelming, almost sexual. I’m so glad to feel affinity, and my remembered yearning crushes me with embarrassment in the morning.
Yesterday I smiled as friends in far-flung places celebrated spring with pictures of flowering trees: the luminous numinous in Vancouver, New York, Seattle. One friend snaps the profile of her little shaggy black dog under a canopy of pink blossoms, and I respond, "The poet as a young dog."
Later I planted radish and basil seeds in tiny compostable pots I label and arrange on a plate etched with birds, which I place on my desk to observe as I write. I also ordered lavender seeds, to recall summers walking around campus, catching that herbaceous fragrance as I pondered my latest conundrum.
I link planting to writing: the seeds lie inchoate in the black earth, yearning for form, to bloom, be, radiant and green as the first morning of the world. They must be watered and protected, nourished by vigilance and hope.