Interregnum

Sunshine has returned, but has not dominated the day. Many birds gathered to chirp greetings. The sprouting grass, mowed last week, has already grown shaggy. Rain-battered camellias, turning brown, lie heaped about the feet of the bushes. The deep green moss on the fruitless mulberry tree is dense, but the tree itself appears to be struggling to put out a few new twigs dressed with a few pale leaves. It might not bring much shade this summer, and I doubt it will survive much longer.

The lilac bushes in the back yard are faring slightly better, but they, too, seem to be nearing the end of their lives. This spring is fulled of mixed signals. The exotic garden plants seem old, their lushness spent, but the oaks and pines flourish. They are the natives, of course, so they should, even in drought years, but the general decline around them is sad. I can't tell if I've grown weary of the place, or have just grown weary. Maybe it's both. I keep thinking I'd like to go some other place, but have I no idea where, and I doubt that I have the energy in any case.

So I sit and watch the landscape and the drifting clouds, and listen to the birds and the frogs, and sniff the crisp air scented with wet grass and pine. Tomorrow it will rain again, and I'll be relieved from thinking about change for another day. After all, nothing can be done in the rain.


( Sunday Verse )