Creepy, is the word Tom used for the weather, day after day of sun and sixty as if encased in amber. Forgive me, all you in your Arctic vortex if I complain. We are in a state of entropy. I want to turn the irrigation systems off. I want it to rain. I want to be able to water again next May, but not until then. I am willing to bargain, to sell my soul, at least a good share of it. Let it rain. Nature, are you having senior moments? Have you forgotten how?
O western wind when will thou blow That the small rain down can rain?
People go out in shorts at night. Short shorts, some of them. The nights are peaceful, even for the homeless on Shotwell Street. Nobody’s harassing them. They are glad it hasn’t rained. That it doesn’t rain. They don’t worry about not having enough water for their gardens, nor about flushing the toilet.
Today I transplanted three spider plants in one of my gardens, admiring how the fibrous roots store water. This fall and winter instead of green-binning the mounds of ginkgo, maple, cherry and liquidambar leaves I have collected them and spread them as mulch. Purists, visual and otherwise, might squawk, so I do this mostly in my own garden and will continue until somebody tells me it’s not a good idea. I put a collar of Japanese maple leaves around the trunk of a tree fern. I kind of like the look. I can’t imagine it’s going to do anything but delight the fern.
We’re through the holidays, now well into January. Terry Gross mentioned on her show yesterday that she’s more susceptible to anxious thoughts after the holidays, and I was reassured. I’m looking at the 5-day forecast, the 10-day.
Like a deer longs for running water.
I went to the deYoung to see the Hockney exhibit, prepared to be underwhelmed and was instead astounded. Particular highpoint: watching a monitor as a landscape is created on an i-Pad. It was like seeing a plant open in time-lapse photography with multiple additional thrills, including the thrill of novelty. (What all gardens require a shot of now and then.) The lines, the squibs and washes appear in what could be an infinite process. Several times I thought, oh now it’s finished, when there would come a flurry of new lines or a wash of color, here a cloud, there a reflection in the puddle of the overhead trees and the sky beyond.
So beautiful. You could almost smell the rain.