The fruitless mulberry tree which I thought to be near the end of its days when it failed to thrive this spring after being pollarded a few months ago has suddenly decided to put out a dense thicket of leaves. The thin new branches are unseen amid the mass of them, and only a few twiggy bits extend beyond the big green lollipop it has become. The ball of leaves is at least a dozen feet across, and gives evidence that the tree has plenty of life left in it. It won't be providing any shade to the roof this summer, though, and my window will be exposed to direct sunlight for the latter part of the afternoons. It probably will get a bit wider as the season progresses, as long as I keep giving it some water, but by the time it's big enough to block the late sun in the northwest, the sun will have moved south. The Autumnal equinox should restore afternoon shade to my window. I'm looking forward to that, at least.
I have to rush if I'm to get dinner before nine o'clock, when there's something I want to watch on television. I bought a donut at Safeway this afternoon and ate it on arriving home and spoiled my appetite. All those warnings I got in childhood were as well founded as they are unheeded.
After Reading T'ao Ch'ing, I Wander Untethered Through the Short Grass
by Charles Wright
Dry spring, no rain for five weeks. Already the lush green begins to bow its head and sink to its knees. Already the plucked stalks and thyroid weeds like insects Fly up and trouble my line of sight. I stand inside the word here As that word stands in its sentence, Unshadowy, half at ease. Religion's been in a ruin for over a thousand years. Why shouldn't the sky be tatters, lost notes to forgotten songs? I inhabit who I am, as T'ao Ch'ing says, and walk about Under the mindless clouds. When it ends, it ends. What else? One morning I'll leave home and never find my way back— My story and I will disappear together, just like this.