Wednesday, April 30, 2008

on the nature of desire

It isn't that I crave the lawn, the driveway, the shaped boxwood border. Just the perfectly situated, satisfied dogwood. The Eastern simplicity of the lines of the tree would carry over its essence of grace and refinement into all aspects of life that touched it. If one owns a dogwood tree, one takes tea under the shade of the tree with formal tea service on quiet and unhurried summer afternoons. Once the tree is settled, matured, the rush of trying to arrive and depart and arrive again falls away, to embrace the contentment of limited mobility and calm, peaceful being, without having the corresponding going and to-ing and fro-ing. From the branches of the dogwood tree would rain peace and love and tranquility; the presence of companions and the turning of a page.
None of this exists. There is no dogwood tree that I can call my own; the alarm sounds shrilly without compromise, the cats must be fed and dishes must be washed. Deadlines loom and take no prisoners, politicians wallow in faint promises of an artificial and unsustainable world, the pen runs out of ink and bills must be paid.




reading planting directions for Page's Liberty Garden: forget-me-not, baby's breath, impatiens, aster, and marigold seeds

weather hopefully the final frost