It is 73 Degrees Outside

I have packages to mail, presents to buy, dinner to make…

I creep all around the property, looking for more newness, more rebirth.

I am not disappointed. Every day, something new, delicate, tentative; the next, it opens its arms to embrace the sun; soon after, the joy has passed, the bloom fades, the moment is gone.

But then again something new, to seek out and document.

I am like Issa’s little girl:

“The peony is this big!”

the child’s arms

outstretched

I cannot imagine what the neighbors, or passing cars, can possibly think of me as I lie flat on my belly, clicking away, attempting to achieve lovely shots of violets, tiny little things.

What springs unbidden to my own mind is,

“April

Comes like an idiot,

babbling and strewing flowers.”

-Edna St. Vincent Millay