Sunday: Writing Church is in Session
I've been worshipping in the garden church for two days. Even the muscles in my butt hurt. Eric was down at his new college, doing his first practice workshop with the Marching Illini drumline--suddenly, he has fallen into the world of superstars. So I thought, while Cinderella was down there with him, I'd make her a garden. Whew!

The neighborhood raccoon came over last night to see what I'd done. I think she liked it. Climbed the red maple (Chayo has named the tree Queen Sally--her husband is across the yard, a monster named King Ralph; King Ralph drops hundreds of winged seeds everywhere, as does Queen Sally, and the little miracles turn into a thousand baby maple trees which I hate to pull up...a San Diego boy can't imagine maple forests as weed patches...I feel like I ought to mail you seedlings so you can have your own memorial Hummingbird's Maple). The slim little 'coon sat up there and looked over the yard, and me.

Here's a welcome meditation for this bright, flowery day:

To the Reader
by Denise Levertov

As you read, a white bear leisurely
pees, dyeing the snow

and as you read, many gods
lie among lianas: eyes of obsidian
are watching the generations of leaves,

and as you read
the sea is turning its dark pages,
its darl pages.

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