May 10, The Full Green Cell
Almanac for Post Moderns
If only there were a way to write about the cut arc around a bed of flowers so fully it revealed the craft of carving soil. My wife’s deft replanting of a single shoot of grass and root outside the arc’s perimeter is as quick as a thought. Will it root? Maybe. So gentle its entry into soil, and now human handedness, to grow and be mown or die.
That line just outside knowledge remains curiosity or precursor to a million questions cast green across a lawn, windblown as so much data. Floating about on this wind is its own arc in soil — a perimeter for millenia. Our only real grace: this is our place.
If central, inside the arc, there is home flowering around us, then the dark line of the human mark, even just across the granite cut for our front step, refracts bright. It cannot but do so as living thing flitting into its own perimeter around the weed filled tote, the barrow and the minute but full green cell.
