It felt good to check "emerald ash borer worries" off my list yesterday. At a completely reasonable price, Sonja the tree expert has now inoculated my ash tree against the invasive pest that's been steadily killing the American ash population. She'll have to repeat the job every few years, but this is so much better than losing a young and (thus far) brilliantly healthy tree. 

When you live in a forest, it's easier to give up on a tree. There are so many others. But here in the city, every lost tree feels like an amputation.

A small rain fell yesterday evening--not a deep drenching but a solid-enough drink. I lit a fire and made a lamb and black-eyed pea stew and wandered from window to window, staring out into the dim green world, the pulsing spring darkness. My peas are climbing the trellis, the beans are unfolding their second leaves, potatoes are pushing out of the soil, a stand of onions throws back its shoulders, infant lettuce fattens as arugula and winter spinach prepare to flower, radishes glow like red marbles . . . In bloom: deep purple irises, pale drift of bridal veil, lilacs still fragrant but beginning to brown, here and there the last yellow tulips clinging to eloquence in the cool mornings . . .

Today, more editing, then housework. A bike ride into the cemetery, laundry on the line, and tonight probably I'll go out to write.

What gaze will I meet, under this slow tide . . . ?