So much to do, and all I want is to sit in my garden at the little green café tables doing nothing. No, rather doing many things, if imperceptible—being, absorbing, enjoying the company of birds, healing, wishing for flowers whose colors might equal those in Santa Fe, feeling sad, glad, stunned, uncertain of my way forward, rid of the disconnect between feelings and thought. I watch the sun climb past the Russian olive tree, trying to make sure that my new begonias and impatiens don’t lose their shade for long. I watch the lizards flicker on the hot stone as they did once in a walled garden in rural Italy, a place I’ve never been back to. I listen to the alpacas in the next yard sneeze, then run. What drama has entered their day? So many people in the past few weeks, I’m happy now with these unspeaking creatures, sitting quietly replenishing my store of words.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Garden Pots