How to write another press release
I planted the hydrangea vine on the south bricked side when I thought
I would be here long enough to see it curl onto second story sills. I am
still here and to the roof it aims.
This vine is a place where doves attempt to nest until April
whips a vicious storm. Every year. It is a place, when daylight floats
above the east side row of houses, chattering erupts from the same
mated pair and mated chipmunk progeny above my headboard. Every
year. I should move my bed to another wall. Then
the hard frost comes and it is too silent.
Climbing hydrangea blooms once a year after
viburnum carlesii no longer sends up its fragrance to pull my nose
from my work as I sit at this desk without a dog, no longer, reminding —
‘time for a walk.’ So this year I counted on these panicles
of creamy blooms to frame the view outside like a portal to
something outside of work at this desk.
But blooms are scant. I can wonder
whether it is climate change and write about Spring’s late winter
storms, instead chipmunks have found…
