Sunday, March 28, 2021

Here are my pea poles, and a view of my neighbor's house, which is much cuter than mine. Last year's pea crop was a bust, so I'm hoping that a different variety and a new growing situation will help.

And this is my potato plot: three big grow bags, each with a different compact variety. They don't look as good as Tom's wooden planters do, but they don't look terrible either. And we can move them around if we need to. For now they're sitting at the head of the lane.

Friday's rain and Saturday's sun brought out so many flowers. The crocuses are particularly thick and vibrant this year; I think they've slowly been spreading in the revitalized gardens. I love these buttery ones best.

We've got another batch of rain coming in this afternoon--good timing for my freshly planted potatoes. I don't know what I'll be up to. I definitely need to do the grocery shopping I avoided doing yesterday. I probably ought to clean the bathrooms. Tom and I might set forth on yet another gravel-shopping expedition. It seems likely that I'll watch some basketball. I do look forward to staring out the windows at the wet gardens.

Yesterday I got a note from a poet I greatly admire, writing about my Accident Sonnets, speaking about their "candor" and their "emotional shaping." Given that they were created under such awkward, uneasy, unconcentrated conditions; that I could not find quiet space, in my head or my life--and that I decided not to even try to manufacture any facsimile of work-peace--I feel especially tearful about this kind of praise. They were a mess to make, and a mess to live. But perhaps that is their point. The poet is always the last to know such things.

1 comment:

Ruth said...

Those last few sentences sum up for me what poetry is anyway "... a mess to make, and a mess to live." You do deserve that praise and yes the poet is the last to know.