The old pond--
a frog jumps in,
sound of water.

Basho, translated by Robert Hass

Now, I know what I need and where to get it. Our meadow wants milkweed and Queen Anne’s Lace. I called the dogs and brought my trowel. On the way to the river there was a mushroom standing up in a pillow of moss. The grapevine wrapped the river’s edge. I headed toward the railroad tracks. There I found a fine tall stalk of lace and a milkweed stem bearing pods. I dug one up of each and carried them home to my meadow quickly in the sun. Into the earth, I planted each with black dollop of pig fertilized soil. I found a feather in the grass. Is this good luck? I don’t know if they will survive and thrive and eventually spread. I hope so. Indoors I started working on a draft of a poem for Monday. It was hot at my desk so I opened the screen-less door and let the breeze and a bee fly in. The milkweed may or may not make it. Is my poem going to grow and thrive? I am trying to plant it. I don’t know if I like it yet. I don’t know if it’s working yet. I don’t know if it will amount to anything worthy. It needs, perhaps, a black dollop of pig fertilizer. It’s a poem about swimming in the rain, which is a poem about sensuality and desire. I am working all this out line by line when my phone rings and my daughter is wanting me to meet her to see an apartment in the city she might rent. So, this is a welcome break for the moment. We drive into Somerville and the apartment is tiny, not quite adequate. But the garden outside the door, well, that is charming and exquisite, centered by a pear tree bearing fine fruit. After my walk this morning, after the milkweed, I passed the big flat rock of our little frog pond and the frog was sitting in the sun. He let me take his picture without being in the least bit disturbed in his habitat.