“That corpse you planted last year…”

mot-quite Journaling, 49

2/6/2023: Some days suck. Other days burst with the kind of warm and bright and awesome that allows an exhausted soul to hold new life in the palm of her hand. And for just a moment, all is well.

2/7/2023: While walking by the pain management clinic, I overheard someone shout, “I don’t know. It’s everywhere. Everything hurts. I don’t know where the pain is coming from.” I wish I could say that I didn’t understand, but lying doesn’t match my cool compression socks. Few things are as frustrating as a doctor asking you to point where it hurts, while you are feeling like your entire body is just pain.

 

Dreaming
spring dreams:
forget-me-not, tomato, pepper,
gloriosa daisy, and sun-
flowers.

2/10/2023: Seeds I started 5 days ago are already sprouting. I thought they were going to take longer—since it has been so cold and the sun hasn’t been all that reliable—but I set them by a window,  above the heater, and that seems to have done the trick. I’m particularly proud of the forget-me-nots (2^nd photo), which came in a plantable card my mother-in-law gave me 10 years ago. The rest of the seeds came from my 2022 garden.

Have you started your seeds? And what about “That corpse you planted last year in your garden / ‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?” Oh, wait… never mind, that wasn’t you. According to T.S. Eliot’s ghost, it was Stetson!

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #64: Life Is Sneakier Than Fiction.